





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































u JJ K 



O N C 





« » 

4 . ' IM ^r 1 * .0 O * 

o> ~f> v r - \ ^<- ✓ 

oT * 

/» o 1 * ^ **» .** . 0 ° c <b y * 

/- on 0 V v . „ *>. ’ # 1 1 <s .* * f '/t. 

Cv V * ' 0 y> .9 s S ' 

^ X ^ r ^ ^ $ * 

^ <Jy : 4 ||/^ o ^ • 

^ ^ : -° A^ V ^ ^ ^ 

^ '' , ~ s s 

V . * A * N 



. V 'V, - c a A '^-v 

-V '^’ ^ ->4 u> ‘'c^'si'' . «’ 

0 V- / v •>* * *s o’ •* _V- 

r ^ <V , . s A O y _ t -k ,6 

P .‘!T*,% ” .#\s *';;*,^ 0 C °*.AV^ 



O' N 0 ' \V 

t, C‘ V * A 

41 x A*’ * \ \ 

" </* <*T - 

- V- 





\°°<. 


c°\- c 
; '"o o’* ° 4 

- A ++ 

^ ^ v*- ^, <<- x^, 

3 N 0 ' \^ * * 0 * 8 . 1 * ' fP s .* , f 

V *- ' > A 0 ' s j^ 

'\>^* /j^SC^ %/ «* 


•V 


C‘ 




9 ^' A>. o ^ 

X •>* ^ 

* - - 

^ y O , ^ 



•£. / 

■ V 

^ 1 ■ X ;r *‘ ; ;^K *'*/; v . .v;.: ♦;* 

r ^V. vf **■ >» ^ v 

« ^ > » |g»# o O' 

« .00 | 1 * 

O <,% 7 j, \ %-f> _ .. ^ 

v^- ^ '^ t y/jy^w ^ ^ 'V'^VXs* > j,’ 

<, oP & t- % ^9 c* y a* 

^* 3 S 0 \/ , . 0 # 8 ' 0 f 0 s S ^ ° ^ ^ 3 H O' ^ 

A ^ A - v <*./r** '' * C> \» ». 0 

,* /r ♦ jmShi * ^ v. 



'^o 0^ 


o> ^ 




1 ,; # y 

< / 'j'T<, T s ^ \ A ^ ey o,^ .0 

^ 'P .X v v /k?^z-, ^ X> r' 

^ * .„ « 

° o' r «s 



AO ^ ^ 'f* 

'* * '^V-S^ * <X 0 


c- 


O 



r. V ^ 

: ^ V c 1 . 

’ "/^ V 4 oV 

A A, y 0 , , ■* < 0 

^ # v 1 1 ^ ~ • - 0 N c 

v -i <s> 

o’* : «q 

^ = a ^ - & 

t- " » 1* 0 \* , „ « » • 1 ' * ,^° . 

O \/ ^ 0 /• > O’ - s 

- \> ^ » 





i ^ ^ ^ 

> VC- «(. 

0 * o,^' ^ ^ 

v v ^ 

^ '\ * ^WW'97, i V ^ ^. 

> ,p 2 ^ 



/ ^ yr \' 

' ^4. 

-{* 1 » 

* .0 o^ 

* -0 o V , .. 

a'^ 'c- 3 M ° 0 V , 

- ' *£ors^ * *> v s- 

•=>: J^PSSfe 5 ^ * X 4 y, ^ 

: ^ A * 





A % ^ 



















r* 


t- ~^ Z ' AA O o 0 

s' 

Ok ^ v 


n j ^ >■<?&« A -&' ^ 

<’if. A V * r ^ * 

° ^ ^ 7 
WLaJf -b $ o 



' 0 * k 



■ <** V 

* V 1 * 

</> V s 


^ /'\*'/% : 
<* ^ / TVs S ^ 0 * X * <. 6 ^ <* 

'<£> A X « v 1 B * *o r$ c 0 N c ♦ ’< 

- V^ X ^ Y o " 

^ V * * oo X ® 

° *5 ^ ’-. 

> Or Cf. 

*- ‘^' s 

^ *n' # 



ofr* 



“ S ^ 

► -mwr ^ - ' ct* * & -a o^ ' % ^sk^mst “ 

** , , s rA o v f) ^ ,(V ^ 

» * * /V:.^ ^ 0 °* ^' * *\/, 

A *&({[///>? + , ^ ^ A \ * 

*- r «o< :*qffiu A ^ “ 

/p&M ' lir * . O o ■> 


% 0 


S ^ r 

y ^ 




\ -*> + 


c ^ y 

^ - XJ ‘ V “ s' '^'X >: # 2 ^ ^ 

\w * <v> ^ - Xpi W=^ ° o^ v ' "v* ° WMXvy s' 
*vv ^ * ‘V V , w; n v? 

_ S 4 . C. v ✓ ^&WF.v, . C** * C> -4 , SO 

V ^ j&tu/fc^ + , < 




-v 

cK ' 4 - * o 0 c* "y 

,*.o, % »"■>* 4 \s >.,„%. **» 
■ - *- ■- .^' V < 



to ^ ^ T* - 

0 ’ ^ ^ 






%/*0 « ^ 

O' .c« N S/^ V 

^ ^ * 


x 0 °x. 


0 N 



1 ^: o N : '. •*- > 

Qi i a *+ '-yWm: \°°^ 

s? Ak o o. % 

v\»' ^ > -o- vYLjjJ*, S 

'S- ,c ,X 

<D 




















THE TREASURE OF 
THE BUCOLEON 


BY 

ARTHUR D. HOWDEN SMITH 

*1 

Author of “The Doom Trail’’ “Beyond 
the Sunset,*’ etc. 




NEW YORK 

BRENTANO’S 

Publishers 



Copyright, 1923, by 
BRENTANO’S, Inc. 



Copyright, 1923, by 

THE RIDGEWAY COMPANY 


All rights reserved 



(S-C1A71175S 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OT AMERICA 

SEP -6 1923 . 


^ & *y 




To 

JACK NASH 


/ 





CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Cable from Hugh’s Uncle.1 

II. The Broken Message.9 

III. The Papers in the Charter Chest .... 21 

IV. The Gunroom at Castle Chesby.36 

V. A Blind Alley.46 

VI. The Hilyer Party.55 

VII. The Fight in the Gunroom.66 

VIII. The Prior’s Vent.75 

IX. Hide and Seek.87 

X. Stole Away.97 

XI. We Split the Scent.109 

XII. The Balkan Trail.118 

XIII. The Road to Stamboul.128 

XIV. The House in Sokaki Masyeri.138 

XV. Watkins Plays the Goat.149 

XVI. The Red Stone.160 

XVII. The Dance in the Courtyard.169 

XVIII. The Big Show Begins.180 

XIX. First Cruise of the Curlew.190 

XX. Out of Luck.201 

XXI. Watkins to the Rescue.212 

XXII. Hilmi’s Friend.223 



















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIII. Our Backs to the Wall. 237 

XXIV. In the Storm.247 

XXV. The Reckoning. 256 

XXVI. Under the Red Stone. 267 

XXVII. Antiques, Statuary, Chgs. Pd., with Care . 282 







The Treasure of the Bucoleon 

CHAPTER I 

THE CABLE FROM HUGH’S UNCLE 

T HE messenger was peering at the card above the 
push-button beside the apartment entrance as I 
came up the stairs. 

“Chesby?” he said laconically, extending a pink en¬ 
velope. 

“He lives here,” I answered. “I’ll sign for it.” 

The boy clumped off downstairs, and I let myself in, 
never dreaming that I held the key to destiny in my hand 
—or, rather, in the pink envelope. 

A samovar was bubbling in the studio, and my cousin 
Betty King hailed me from the couch on which she sat 
between her father and Hugh. 

“Here you are at last,” she cried. “Dad and I have 
come to say good-by to you.” 

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Can’t you stand 
Hugh any longer?” 

Hugh glowered at me. 

“Always raggin’,” he commented. 

Betty laughed. 

“We are going to Constantinople to hunt for Greek 
manuscripts.” 

“I have a theory,” explained my uncle, Vernon King, 
“that the upheavals of the war and the occupation of the 
city by Christian garrisons should be productive of rich 
opportunities for bibliophiles like myself, aside from an 

enhanced chance for archasological research.” 

1 



2 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Well, I wish you luck,” I grumbled. “And I wish 
I was not tied down to an architect’s drawing-board.” 

“ ’Matter of fact, I’m about fed up with Wall Street,” 
growled Hugh. “Nobody can make money any more.” 

“It’s very funny,” remarked Betty. “Both you and 
Jack announced when you settled down after the war, 
Hugh, that nothing could ever root you up again. All 
you wanted, you said, was a good job and plenty of hard 
work. ’ ’ 

“I know it,” admitted Hugh. “I remember Nash, here, 
and Nikka Zaranko—” 

“You mean the famous Gypsy violinist?” interrupted 
my uncle, who, I ought to say, uses the millions he receives 
from his oil-holdings to patronize the arts and sciences. 

“Yes, sir. He was in the Foreign Legion durin’ the 
war. We all met in the last big push in Flanders. I 
went in with my battalion to help out Jack’s crowd, and 
was snowed under with them. Then Nikka tried to ex¬ 
tricate both outfits, and the upshot was the Aussies finally 
turned the trick. Some show! 

“Well, we three became pals. What I was going to 
say was that the last time we got together before demobili¬ 
zation we agreed we never wanted to feel the threat of 
danger again. We wanted to become rich and prosperous 
and fat and contented. That was why I came over to 
New York with Jack, instead of staying home and fight¬ 
ing with my uncle.” 

“That reminds me,” I said, extending the pink envelope. 
“Here’s a cable for you. Maybe—” 

“If it’s from Uncle James I shall be surprised,” replied 
Hugh, ripping open the envelope. “A line once in six 
months is his idea of avuncular correspondence. Hullo ! ’ ’ 

He pursed his lips in a prolonged whistle. 

“Anything wrong?” asked Betty anxiously. 

“No—well—humph! It’s hard to say. Listen to this: 
4 Sailing Aquitania to-day due New York eighteenth must 
see you immediately have made important discovery your 


THE CABLE FROM HUGH’S UNCLE 


3 


aid essential family fortunes involved this confidential.” 

“Yes, on second thought, it is wrong, all wrong. He’s 
after that treasure again. Oh, lord! I did my best to 
persuade him to be sensible before I left England with 
Jack.” 

“A treasure!” exclaimed Betty. “But you never told 
me about it! ” 

“Oh, it’s a long story,” protested Hugh. “Frightfully 
boring. It’s a sort of family curse—like leprosy or house¬ 
maid’s knee. It’s supposed to be located in Constanti¬ 
nople, and my uncle has spent his life and most of the 
family’s property trying to find it. That’s why I have 
to make money in New York instead of playing the coun¬ 
try gentleman. There was little enough in the family 
treasury before Uncle James reached it. Now— Well, the 
new Lord, who will probably be me, will find trouble pay¬ 
ing the Herald’s fees, let alone succession duties.” 

“You really are too exasperating,” declared Betty. 
“A treasure story is never boring.” 

“I am on Betty’s side,” said her father. 

My uncle Vernon is a very decent sort, despite the fact 
that he is a millionaire. He is a professor several times 
over, and hates the title. And he is one of the few learned 
men I know who can be genuinely interested in low-brow 
diversions. 

“So am I,” I said, backing him up. “You have been 
guilty of secrecy with your friends, which is an English 
vice I thought I had broken you of, Hugh. Come 
clean! ’ ’ 

“But there’s so little to tell,” he said. “I had an an¬ 
cestor about seven hundred years ago, who is generally 
called Hugh the First. This Hugh was son to Lord James, 
who went to the Crusades and was a famous character in 
his time. On his way to Palestine, the stories say, James 
stayed a while with the Emperor Andronicus, who ruled 
in the Eastern Empire—” 

“Ah, yes,” interrupted King eagerly, “would that have 


4 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


been Andronicus Comnenus, sometimes called The 
Butcher ?’ ’ 

“I believe so, sir .’ 7 

“Very interesting, ’ ’ nodded King. “Andronicus 
amassed a great wealth through fines and exactions from 
the nobles, so the contemporary chronicles tell us.” 

“And this treasure is supposed to be in Constanti¬ 
nople!” exploded Betty. “Where we are going! Isn’t 
that so, Hugh?” 

“Yes, it is always located in Constantinople,” an¬ 
swered Hugh. “In fact, it is generally referred to as 
the Treasure of the Bucoleon, which, I understand from 
Uncle James and other authorities of my university days, 
was the principal palace of the Eastern Emperors.” 

“Quite right,” agreed Vernon King, his scholar’s in¬ 
terest whipped aflame. “It was a magnificent residence, 
vying with the Palace of the Caesars in Rome. In reality, 
in light of modern antiquarian research, we may describe 
it as a group of noble structures, standing isolated from 
the city within a spacious park, surrounded by an inde¬ 
pendent series of fortifications and with its own naval 
harbor on the Bosphorus.” 

“An extensive area to hunt over for an apocryphal 
treasure,” remarked Hugh drily. 

“You may well say so,” endorsed my uncle. “I have 
been in Constantinople for extended periods upon several 
occasions, and I have never satisfied myself as to the ex¬ 
istence at this time of any bone fide portions of the Buco¬ 
leon, although it is difficult to pronounce definitely on 
this point. The older portions of the city, especially those 
most massively constructed, have been so over-built since 
the Turkish conquest that frequently what is ostensibly 
a relatively modern building turns out to be almost un- 
believeably ancient at the core. But the prejudices of 
the Turks and their distaste for foreign—” 

Betty, chewing her finger with impatience, waved to her 
father to be silent. 


THE CABLE FROM HUGH’S UNCLE 


5 


“Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Really, you aren’t lectur¬ 
ing, you know! Do let Hugh get on with the treasure.” 

“But I’m afraid I’ve gotten as far as I can,” replied 
Hugh. “The tradition simply says that Andronicus con¬ 
fided the secret of the location of the treasure to Lord 
James. Then Andronicus was assassinated, and James was 
thrown into prison by his successor. Hugh, James’s son, 
went to Constantinople with an army of Latin Crusaders 
who had decided that the best way to help the Holy Land 
was to establish a friendly base there. They conquered 
the city—” 

“A remarkable venture,” corroborated my uncle. “The 
ease with which they secured possession of a city of one 
million inhabitants, not to speak of an extensive empire, 
is a clear indication of the degeneracy—” 

Betty clapped her hand over his mouth. 

“Do get on, Hugh!” she begged. “The treasure! 
You’re almost as long-winded as Dad.” 

We all laughed, and yet, indefinably, she had communi¬ 
cated to each of us something of the magic spell which 
is conveyed by any hint of treasure hidden in the past. 
We savored the heady wine of danger. I felt my right 
palm itching for the corrugated rubber butt of an auto¬ 
matic. When Hugh continued his story we all leaned 
forward, flushed and tense. 

“The Crusaders captured the city, and Hugh rescued 
his father. Then they returned to England. Before 
James died he passed on the secret of tfie treasure to 
Hugh. There are documents in the Charter Chest—” 

“What’s that?” demanded Betty. 

“It’s a terribly old oaken box, bound with copper and 
steel,” explained Hugh. “We keep it in a safe deposit 
vault in the City—London, you know. These documents 
say that James’s idea was to have the treasure used for 
the rehabilitation of Christendom if any cause arose which 
would justify such a gift. Failing that, the money was to 
go to his descendants. But for many generations the 


6 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Lords of Chesby were too busy to hunt treasure so far 
from home. 

“One Lord tried for it in Harry the Fifth’s time, 
but the Greeks watched him so closely that he thought 
himself lucky to escape from Constantinople with his life. 
Then the Turks captured the city, and after that it was 
too risky—except for one chap in Elizabeth’s reign. He 
was Lord James, the sixteenth baron, a shipmate of Raleigh 
and Drake and Hawkins, and he feared nothing that 
lived. He put in at Constantinople and bearded the 
Grand Turk in his lair. But even he did not venture to 
make a genuine search in view of the conditions that pre¬ 
vailed. From his time on few of the familv bothered with 
the tradition until Uncle James commenced to mortgage 
farms to finance his researches.” 

“Then you have no definite knowledge of the location 
of the treasure?” asked King. “No chart or—” 

Hugh laughed bitterly. 

“No, sir, that is just why I feel so peevish over the way 
Uncle James has devastated the estate. It’s a search for 
a needle in a haystack—and a needle that in all probability 
never existed, at that.” 

“I fear so,” assented King, shaking his head. 

11 Nonsense! ’ ’ said Betty. “ It’s as good a treasure story 
as I ever read. Why shouldn’t it be true? Could you 
imagine a more perfect place for concealing a treasure all 
these centuries than Constantinople?” 

“Your father will tell you,” retorted Hugh scornfully, 
“that there is not a famous ruin in the Near East but is 
declared to contain a treasure of one kind or another. ’ ’ 

11 True—only too true ! ’ ’ agreed King. 

“The sole use of the legend so far,” continued Hugh 
unhappily, “has been to give Uncle James something to 
do. It must be a godsend to Curzon in managing the 
House, for during the war while Uncle James was shut up 
in England he was continually moving for the appoint¬ 
ment of committees to preserve the monumental brasses 




THE CABLE FROM HUGH’S UNCLE 


7 


of country churches and appealing to the government to 
recognize that England owed a duty to civilization in re¬ 
taining and Christianizing Constantinople—so he could 
dig to his heart’s content for the treasure.” 

<< Well, I for one intend to believe in it,” stated Betty, 

and if your uncle wants any help in hunting for it, he 
can count on me.” 

“We’ll all help him, if it comes to that,” I 'said. 
“Nikka Zaranko would never forgive us if we left him out 
of such a party.” 

”Uncle James w T ill have nothing tangible to go on,” said 
Hugh. “You can stake your last shilling on that. He’s 
never had a sane idea yet.” 

“I take it, then,” remarked Betty, rising with a de¬ 
tached air, “that you have no desire to go to Constanti¬ 
nople.” 

Betty is slim, with brown hair and eyes and a face 
that you have to look at and when she sets her head 
back—But of course I am only her cousin. Hugh jumped 
up, nervously crunching the cable in his hand. 

“If I only do get a decent excuse to go to Constanti¬ 
nople!” he exclaimed. “But there’s no use. I won’t, 
Bet. I couldn’t honestly encourage Uncle James in any 
more foolishness.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested King, “his visit has nothing to do 
with the treasure.” 

Hugh chuckled, his merry self again. 

“Cross the Atlantic just to look me up? Not a chance, 
sir. His ruling passion is driving him on. Confound it, 
though! I wish this hadn’t come up. And I wish I didn’t 
crave adventure again. And I wish you weren’t going to 
Constantinople. All right! Laugh, Jack, curse you! 
Laugh! Here, I ’ll scrag you with a couch-pillow! ’ ’ 

“Easy! Easy!” I pleaded. “For the furniture’s sake! 
How about giving the Kings a line to Nikka in Paris or 
wherever he is?” 

“Thanks,” said Betty, “but we’re going via the Mediter- 



8 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


annean. The best thing far yon boys to do is to pack up 
with Hugh’s uncle, collect your friend Nikka en route and 
follow on.” 

“No go,” answered Hugh dismally. “All I am 
scheduled for is a fat family row.” 


CHAPTER II 


THE BROKEN MESSAGE 

T HE steamship company telephoned while Hugh 
and I were at breakfast to say that the Aquitania 
was just docking. When w T e reached the pier 
West Street was swarming with out-going automobiles 
loaded with the first contingents of debarking* passengers. 
We pushed our way upstairs into the landing-shed, sur¬ 
rendered our passes and dived into the swirling vortex 
of harried travelers, hysterical relatives and impassive 
Customs officials. 

The Purser’s office in the Main Saloon was vacant, but 
Hugh buttonholed a passing steward. 

“Lord Chesby, sir? Yes, sir, he was one of the first 
ashore. There was a gentleman to meet him, I think, sir.” 

“That’s queer,” muttered Hugh as we returned to the 
gangway. 

“Our best bet is to go straight to the C space in the 
Customs lines,” I said. 

“But who could meet him besides us?” objected Hugh. 
“It’s damned queer,” I agreed. “What does your 
uncle look like?” 

“He’s small, stocky, not fat. Must be around sixty,” 
said Hugh vaguely. 

We surveyed the space under the letter C, where porters 
were dumping trunks and bags and passengers were argu¬ 
ing with the inspectors. 

“No, he’s not here,” said Hugh. “Wait, though, there’s 
Watkins!” 

“Who’s Watkins?” I asked, boring a passage beside 
him through the crowd. 


9 


10 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“He’s Uncle 'James’s man.” 

Watkins was the replica of Hugh’s description of his 
uncle. He was a chunky, solid sort of man, with the 
masklike face of the trained English servant. He was 
clean-shaven, and dressed neatly in a dark suit and felt 
hat. When we came upon him he was sitting forlornly on 
a pile of baggage, watching the confusion around him 
with a disapproving eye. 

“Hullo, Watty?” Hugh greeted him. “Where’s my 
uncle ? ’ ’ 

The valet’s features lighted up, and he scrambled to 
his feet. 

“Ah, Mister Hugh! I’m very glad to see you, sir, if 
I may say so. ’Is ludship, sir? Why, ’e went off with 
your messenger, sir.” 

“My messenger?” Hugh repeated blankly. 

“Yes, sir, the dark gentleman. Your man, ’e said ’e 
was, sir.” 

“My man!” Hugh appealed to me. “Did you hear 
that, Jack?” 

Watkins became suddenly anxious. 

“There’s nothing wrong, I ’ope, sir? The gentleman 
came aboard to find us, and told ’is ludship how you’d 
been delayed, and ’e was to come along to your rooms, 
sir, whilst I saw the luggage through the Customs. Wasn’t 
that right, sir?” 

Hugh sat down on a trunk. 

“It’s right enough, Watty,” he groaned, “except that 
I never sent such a message and I haven’t a man.” 

“What sort of fellow was this messenger?” I asked. 

Watkins turned to me, a look of bewilderment in his 
face. 

“An Eastern-looking gentleman, ’e was, sir, like the 
Gypsies ’is ludship occasionally ’as down to Chesby. 
Strange, I thought it, sir, Mister Hugh, that you should 
be ’aving a gentleman like that to valet you—but as I 


THE BROKEN MESSAGE 


11 


said to ’is ludship, likely it’s not easy to find servants in 
America.” 

“How long ago did Uncle James leave, Watty?” asked 
Hugh. 

“Nearly an hour, sir.” 

“Time enough for him to have reached the apartment. 
Jack, do you mind telephoning on the off-chance? I’ll 
fetch an inspector to go over this stuff.” 

I had no difficulty in getting the apartment. The clean¬ 
ing woman who “did” for us answered. No, nobody had 
called, and there had been no telephone messages. I has¬ 
tened back to the C space with a sense of ugly forebodings. 
Hugh I found colloguing with Watkins, while two Cus¬ 
toms men opened the pile of. Lord Chesby’s baggage. 

“Do you know, Jack,” said Hugh seriously, “I am be¬ 
ginning to think that something sinister m*ay have hap¬ 
pened? Watty tells me that he and Uncle James are just 
come from Constantinople. He says my uncle went there 
convinced that he had discovered the key to the treasure’s 
hiding-place, but in some unexplained way Uncle James 
was deterred from carrying out his plans, and they re¬ 
turned hurriedly to England.” 

“And now I think of it, sir,” amended Watkins, “we 
’ave been shadowed ever since we went to Turkey. I 
never paid much attention to them, considering it was 
coincidence like, but its been one dark gentleman after an¬ 
other—at the Pera Palace Hotel in Constantinople, on the 
Orient Express, in London when we called on ’is ludship’s 
solicitors—” 

II What was that for ? ’ ’ interrupted Hugh—and to me : 
“Uncle James hated business. He couldn’t be brought to 
any kind of business interview unless he had a pressing 
motive. ’ ’ 

“Why, sir, Mister Hugh, I don’t know rightly—least- 
ways, ’twas after ’is conversation with Mr. Bellowes ’e 
sent the cablegram to you, sir. And ’e ’ad the Charter 


12 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Chest sent up from the safe deposit vaults—but that was 
before we went to Turkey, to be sure, sir.” 

“It was, eh?” Hugh was all interest. “How was 
that ? ’ ’ 

“Why, sir, ’e rang for me one day at Chesby, and ’e 
was nubbin’ ’is ’ands together like he does when ’e’s 
pleased, and ’e said: ‘Watkins, pack the small wardrobe 
and the portmanteau. We’re goin’ to run down to Con¬ 
stantinople.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘and do we go direct to 
Dover?’ ‘No,’ ’e said, ‘we’ll go up to London. Wire 
Mr. Bellowes to ’ave the Charter Chest sent up from the 
bank. I must ’ave another look at it—’ ’e was talkin’ to 
himself like, sir—‘I wonder if the hint might not ’ave 
been in the Instructions, after all.’ ” 

Hugh jumped. 

“By Jove, he has been after the treasure! The In¬ 
structions is the original parchment on which Hugh the 
First inscribed his command to his son to go after the 
treasure—carefully leaving out, however, the directions 
for finding it. And what happened then, Watty?” 

“Why, sir, we went up to London, and Mr. Bellowes, ’e 
tried to persuade ’is ludship not to go. They were to¬ 
gether ’alf the morning, and when they came from the pri¬ 
vate office I ’eard Mr. Bellowes say: ‘I’m afraid I can’t 
follow your ludship. There’s not a word in the Instruc¬ 
tions or any of the other documents to shed a ray of light 
on the matter.’ ‘That’s what I wished to make sure of, 
Bellow r es,’ said ’is ludship, with a chuckle.” 

“Cryptic, to put it mildly,” barked Hugh. “Dammit, 
I knew the old boy was up to some foolishness. “If he’s 
taken on some giddy crew of crooks for a piratical ven¬ 
ture—” 

“He wouldn’t have called on you for help,” I cut him 
off. 

“True,” assented Hugh. “But I wish I could take 
some stock in the nonsense at the bottom of It.” 

“I wonder!” I said. “I’m drifting to Betty’s belief 


THE BROKEN MESSAGE 


13 


that there is more in the treasure story than you think.” 

“It’s bunk, I tell you,” said Hugh, thoroughly disgusted. 
“Well, the Customs men are through. Watty, collect some 
porters, and get this baggage down to the taxi stand.” 

The cleaning-woman was still in the apartment when we 
returned, and she reiterated her assertion that nobody had 
called. We had some lunch, and then, on Watkins’s sug¬ 
gestion, I rang up hotels for two hours—without any re¬ 
sult. At the end of my tether I hung up the receiver and 
joined Hugh in gloomy reflection on the couch. Watkins 
hovered disconsolately in the adjoining dining room. 

“There’s one thing more to do,” said Hugh suddenly. 
“Telephone the police.” 

“That would involve publicity,” I pointed out. 

“It can’t be helped.” 

The telephone jangled harshly as he spoke, and I un¬ 
hooked the receiver. Hugh started to his feet. Watkins 
entered noiselessly. 

“Is this Mr. Chesby’s apartment?” The voice that 
burred in my ear was strangely thick, with a guttural 
intonation. “Tell him they are taking what’s left of his 
uncle to Bellevue. It’s his own fault the old fool got it. 
And you can tell his nephew we will feed him a dose of the 
same medicine if he doesn’t come across.” 

Brr-rring! 

“Wait! Wait!” I gasped into the mouthpiece. 
“Who—” 

“Number, please,” said a stilted feminine voice. 

“My God!” I cried. “Hugh, they’ve killed him, I 
think. ’ ’ 

Hugh’s face went white as I repeated the message. 
Watkins’ eyes popped from his head. 

* 1 Where is this hospital ? ’ ’ stammered Hugh. 

“Over on the East Side.” 

“We must catch a taxi. Hurry!” 

Watkins came with us without bidding. In the taxi 
none of us spoke. We were all dazed. Things had hap- 


14 , 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


pened too rapidly for comprehension. We could scarcely 
realize that we were confronting stark tragedy. As we 
turned into East Twenty-sixth Street and the portals 
of the huge, red-brick group of buildings loomed ahead 
of us, Hugh exclaimed fiercely: 

“It may not be true! I believe it was a lie!” 

But it was not a lie, as we soon learned in the office 
to which we were ushered by a white-uniformed orderly. 
Yes, the nurse on duty told us, an ambulance had brought 
in an elderly man such as Hugh described within the half- 
hour. The orderly would show us the ward. 

We traversed a maze of passages to a curtained doorway 
where a young surgeon, immaculate in white, awaited us. 

“You want to see the old man who has been stabbed?” 
he said. 

Hugh gripped my arm. 

“Stabbed! Is he—” 

The surgeon nodded. 

“Yes. He must have made a hell of a fight. He’s all 
slashed up—too old to stand the shock.” 

Watkins caught his breath sharply. 

‘ ‘ Of course, he may not be your man, ’ ’ the surgeon added 
soothingly. 1 ‘ This way. ’’ 

He led us into a long room lined with beds. A high 
screen had been reared around one of them, and he drew it 
aside and motioned for us to enter. An older surgeon 
stood by the head of the narrow bed with a hypodermic 
needle in his hand. Opposite him kneeled a nurse. Two 
bulky men in plainclothes, obvious policemen, stood at the 
foot. 

And against the pillow lay a head that might have been 
Hugh’s,, frosted and lined by the years. The gray hair 
grew in the same even way as Hugh’s. The hawk-nose, 
the deep-set eyes, the stubborn jaw, the close-clipped mus¬ 
tache, the small ears, were all the same. As we entered, 
the eyes flashed open an instant, then closed. 

“Uncle James!” 



THE BROKEN MESSAGE 


15 


“ Ts ludship! Oh, Gawd!’’ 

The policemen and the nurse eyed us curiously, but the 
surgeon by the bed kept his attention concentrated on the 
wan cheeks of the inert figure, fingers pressing lightly on 
the pulse of a hand that lay outside the sheets. Swiftly he 
stooped, wfith a low ejaculation to the nurse. She swabbed 
the figure’s arm with a dab of cotton, and the needle was 
driven home. 

“Caught him up in time,” remarked the surgeon imparti¬ 
ally. “Best leave him while it acts.” 

Hb turned to us. 

“I take it you recognize him, gentlemen.” 

“He is my uncle,” answered Hugh dully. 

“Ah! I fancy you will be able to secure a few words 
with him after the strychnia has taken hold, but he is slip¬ 
ping fast.” 

One of the policemen stepped forward. 

“I am from the Detective Bureau,” he said. “Do you 
know how this happened?” 

11 We know nothing, ’ 9 returned Hugh. ‘ ‘ He landed from 
the Aqwitania this morning. We were late in reaching the 
pier. When we reached it—” 

Some instinct prompted me to step on Hugh’s foot. He 
understood, hesitated and shrugged his shoulders. 

“—he was gone, ostensibly to seek my apartment.” 

“Name?” asked the detective, thumbing a notebook. 

‘ ‘ His ? Chesby. It is mine, too. ’ ’ 

“Initials?” 

“His full name is James Hubert Chetwynd Crankhaugh 
Chesby.” 

“English?” 

“Yes.” 

“Business or profession?” 

“Well, I don’t know how to answer that question. He is 
a scholar—and then he’s a member of the House of Lords.” 

A subtle change swept over the faces of the policemen. 
They became absurdly deferential. Their interest, which 


16 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


had been perfunctory, grew intent. The surgeons and the 
nurse, hardened to such deathbed scenes, responded also 
to the element of drama which Hugh’s words had injected 
into the drab story. 

‘ 1 Gee-roosalum!” exclaimed the policeman. “This be¬ 
gins to look big. Who could have wanted to bump off 
a guy like him? Was he—a gay sorter old boy, eh?” 

“Positively, no. He was the last man to suspect of 
anything like that. He has been a traveler and student 
all his life.” 

“What was his specialty?” 

“Gypsy dialects and history, and the ancient history of 
Constantinople.” 

“Gypsies, eh?” The detective was all alert. “He was 
picked up corner of Thirteenth Street and Avenue C. 
There’s a plenty of Gypsy dumps in that neighborhood. A 
man and three women saw him dropped from a closed 
auto. The Gyps are a bad people to get down on you, 
clannish as hell and awful suspicious. It may be this here 
Lord Chesby crossed some family of ’em in his studying 
and they went out to knife him. ’ ’ 

“It may be,” agreed Hugh, “but I haven’t a thing to 
back up the assertion with.” 

“Well, we’ll start to work on that clue anyhow.” 

The detective stepped around the screen, and Hugh 
touched the senior surgeon on the arm. 

‘ ‘ How long ? ’ ’ 

“Probably only a few minutes.” 

As he spoke, the deep-sunk eyes flickered open, sur¬ 
veyed us almost quizzically one by one. 

Hugh bent forward, Watkins beside him. 

“Do you know me, Uncle James?” 

The lips parted, frampd words that were barely audible. 

1J Good lad! Where’s—Watkins ? ’ ’ 

“ ’Ere, your ludship,” volunteered the valet, with a 
gulp. 


THE BROKEN MESSAGE 


17 


‘‘ Send—others—” 

Hugh looked up to the senior surgeon. 

“Do you mind, sir?” 

“Not at all. Just a moment, though.” 

He stooped to feel the pulse, reached for the needle 
and shot in a second injection. Its effect was instantane¬ 
ous. The dying man's eyes brightened; a very faint tinge 
of color glowed in his ashen face. 

“I'm afraid that second shot will hasten the end,” the 
surgeon muttered to me, “but it will give the poor old 
fellow more strength while he lasts. Make the most of 
your opportunity.” 

He shepherded his assistants outside the screen, and 
Hugh pulled me to my knees beside him. 

“This is Jack Nash, Uncle James,” he said, speaking 
slowly and distinctly. “He is my friend—your friend. 
He will be with me in whatever I have to do for you.” 

Lord Chesby's eyes, a clear gray they were, examined me 
closely. 

“Looks—right.” The syllables trickled almost sound¬ 
less from his lips. “It’s—treasure—Hugh.” His eyes 
burned momentarily with triumph. “Know—where—” 

1 ‘ But who stabbed you ? ’ ’ 

I have often wondered what would have happened if 
Hugh had let him talk on of the treasure, instead of 
switching the subject. 

“Toutou,” answered the dying man, with sudden 
strength. ‘ ‘ Tiger—that chap—others—against—him. ’' 

“But why? Why did he do it?” 

Once more the smile of triumph in the eyes. 

‘ ‘ Wouldn 't—tell—him—treasure—said—torture—broke 
—away—Gypsies— ’ ’ 

Exhaustion overcame him. His eyes closed. 

“Is he going?” I murmured. 

Hugh crouched lower and held his watch-case to the 
blue lips. A mist clouded the polished surface. 


18 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


11 Give him time,” he said. Watty, who is Toutou?” 

“Never ’eard of ’im, sir. Oh, Mister Hugh, sir, is ’is 
ludship—” 

The gray eyes opened; the lips began to move. 

‘ ‘ W atch—out—that—g ang—desperate—be—after— 
you.” 

“But who are they, Uncle James?” 

‘ ‘Toutou—worst—Beran—many—bad—lot. ’ ’ 

“Where did they take you? Tell us, and we shall have 
them arrested?” 

The gray eyes glittered. 

“No — no — lad —avoid — police — don’t — talk — treas¬ 
ure—” 

“Where is the treasure?” I interposed. 

‘ ‘ Bull—cedars—li— ’ ’ 

His breathing dwindled to little, fluttering gasps, but 
he fought on. 

“How did you find it, Uncle James?” asked Hugh 
softly. 

That gay smile of triumph shone in his eyes for the last 
time. 

‘ ‘ Used—my—brain—all—laughed—me—in—Hugh’s— ’ ’ 

And the life flickered out of him as we watched. 

Two big tears rolled down Watkins’ cheeks. 

“ ’E was a good master. Oh, Mister Hugh, sir, I do 
hope we can punish those bloody villains! ’ ’ 

“We will,” said Hugh coldly, rising to his feet. “For 
the time being, Watkins, remember to keep your mouth 
shut about all this. Uncle James was right about the 
police. They can’t help us in such a matter. If there 
is anything in the treasure story we should wreck any 
chance of finding it by advertising our purpose.” 

“The less said the better,” I agreed. “If the police 
ask us, he rambled at the end about Gypsies and family 
affairs. ’ ’ 

There were several details to be settled with the hos- 


THE BROKEN MESSAGE 


19 


pital authorities. The British Consulate had to be no¬ 
tified. Reporters had to be seen. It was early evening 
when the three of us returned to the apartment in West 
Eleventh Street, and the newsboys were yelling an extra. 

“English nobleman murdered on the East Side! Hor¬ 
rible death of Lord Chesby! ’ ’ 

I bought a copy, and we read it as we walked down 
Fifth Avenue: 

“ ‘One of the strangest murder mysteries in the criminal 
annals of New York has been presented to the police for 
solution through the death in Bellevue Hospital this after¬ 
noon of James Hubert Chetwynd Crankhaugh Chesby, 
twenty-ninth Baron Chesby in the Peerage of Great 
Britain, thirty-fifth Lord of the Manor of Chesby and 
Hereditary Ranger of Crowden Forest. 

“ ‘After landing from the Cunarder Aquitania this 
morning, Lord Chesby, a dignified, scholarly man of fifty- 
eight, was lured away from the pier into the purlieus of 
the East Side, where, apparently after a valiant fight for 
life, he was set upon and hacked with knives. His body, 
still living, was left by an automobile—” 

“Skip it,” ordered Hugh impatiently. “What do they 
say of the object of the crime?” 

“ ‘From the fact that Lord Chesby has made a life¬ 
long study of Gypsy lore and dialects,’ I read on, ‘the police 
suspect that some criminal of these nomad tribes may have 
slain the distinguished nobleman, either for personal gain 
or vengeance. Lord Chesby’s nephew and heir, the Hon. 
Hugh James Ronald Howard Chesby, who is a Wall Street 
bond-broker, received a telephone message during the after¬ 
noon, notifying him of his uncle’s fate and warning him 
that the same end would be his if he made any attempt 
to run down the assassins. 

“ ‘The new Lord Chesby when interviewed at—’ ” 

“I don’t like it,” interrupted Hugh again, frowning, 
“but it will have to stand. Uncle James wanted it that 


20 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


way, and his word is law. It will do no good to add to 
the story. The police can’t help ns. We are playing a 
lone hand. All rules are off.’ ’ 

“A lone hand?” I repeated. “Does that mean that 
Nikka is out of it ? Remember, we agreed after the Armis¬ 
tice that if we ever did forsake the fleshpots for the call 
of danger it would be together.” 

“I hate to drag him away from his concerts,” answered 
Hugh, considering. “He’s makin’ pots of money. But if 
there’s a Gypsy angle to this he’d be priceless to us.” 
“And he’d never forgive us if we left him out,” I added. 
“I suppose he wouldn’t. Tell you what, we’ll cable 
him to meet us in London at my solicitors’ office. We’ve 
got a long way to go, Jack. We don’t even know who 
we have to fight. As for the treasure—Well, I want to 
talk to Bellowes first and have a look at the Charter 
Chest. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER III 


THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 
T Liverpool we wired to Hugh’s solicitors for an 



appointment that afternoon and dispatched Wat¬ 


kins direct to Chesby with the body of his late 


master. We arrived at Victoria about four o’clock, and 
took a taxi to the offices of Courtenay, Bellowes, Manson 
and Courtenay in a smutted old building in Fleet Street 
over against the Law Courts. 

Up two flights of stairs we climbed to a dirty door with 
the firm-name straggling across it. A clerk stepped for¬ 
ward as we entered, but before he could speak a brown 
figure shot out of an inner office, and wrapped Hugh and 
me in a jovial hug. It was Nikka, thinner than we re¬ 
membered him, but with the same steady eyes and quiet 
smile. He was abashed by his own enthusiasm and started 
to apologize. 

“I am so glad to see you two,” he said, “that I forget 
it is a time of sadness. Yet even so it means gladness for 
me that I see my friends again.” 

“It’s gladness for all of us,” returned Hugh, wringing 
his hand, with its delicate, sinewy fingers. 

“It means something like the old life once more,” I 
added. “That is, if you can come, Nikka.” 

“I’ll come,” he said simply. “For two years I have 
been faithful to my fiddle. Now, I think, it is time I had 
a rest.” 

An elderly gentleman, with gray hair and precise 
features, emerged from the inner offices and bowed def¬ 
erentially to Hugh. 


21 


22 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“I trust your lordship is in good health. If you re¬ 
member—” 

“Of course, Mr. Bellowes,” assented Hugh. “I remem¬ 
ber you very well. This is my friend, Mr. Nash. Mr. 
Zaranko, I take it, you already know. Are you at 
liberty ?” 

“Surely, sir. I expected you. This way, please.” 

And he ushered us into a room where chairs were clus¬ 
tered about a square table on which reposed a huge, steel- 
bound box of very heavy, dark oak. Mr. Bellowes waved 
his hand toward the box. 

“I trust I anticipated your lordship’s wishes. I di¬ 
rected the bank to send up the Charter Chest this after¬ 
noon.” 

“Quite right,” said Hugh, “it will simplify our task. 
Did my uncle leave any will?” 

A shadow settled upon Mr. Bellowes’ lined face. 

“There was no need, your lordship. The estate is en¬ 
tailed. The Shipping Bonds, your grandmother’s dower, 
went before the war. The mining shares all have been 
sold, as well as several smaller blocks of securities. Aside 
from some insurance accruing from your uncle’s demise, 
there is practically nothing—oh, a few government bonds 
of the war issues, to be sure—outside of the Chesby lands.” 

He wrung his hands nervously. 

“Oh, Mister Hugh—I beg your pardon, your lordship 
—I don’t know what we shall have to do. The death 
duties can scarcely be met. The insurance will help some, 
but I am afraid we must raise another mortgage at a ruin¬ 
ous rate or else move to break the entail and sell off some 
of the farms. I warned his late lordship again and again 
of the harm he was doing, but he would never listen to 
me.” 

“Poor Uncle James has paid a stiff price for his 
efforts,” answered Hugh. “I can’t find it in my heart to 
take exception to his extravagances after what happened 
in New York.” 


THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 23 


The old lawyer looked at ns slyly. 

4 ‘Just what did happen, if I may ask, sir? The reports 
in the press were—” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“He was murdered by a gang of criminals, who were 
trying to obtain from him information which he apparently 
believed furnished a clue to this treasure he had been 
searching for all his life,” returned Hugh. 

“Really, sir?” exclaimed Mr. Bellowes in surprise. 

‘ ‘ Why did you suppose he was killed within a few hours 
of landing in a strange city ?’ ’ countered Hugh. 

The solicitor hesitated. 

“If your lordship will permit me to speak quite frankly? 
Ah! Thank you, sir. I will say, then, that I had fancied 
I knew your uncle unusually w T ell, and in light of that 
knowledge I w T ould never have fancied him addicted to 
—er—” he coughed apologetically—“probably I need not 
say any more. But at anj^ rate it will not be offensive if 
I add that in a long course of legal experience I have 
never heard of a man of his late lordship’s position being 
murdered unless—unless there were circumstances of a 
character we may describe off-hand as unsavory.” 

There was a brief silence. 

“I infer that is the general supposition?” asked Hugh, 
rousing himself. 

“I fear it is, your lordship.” 

“And it is absolutely untrue!” exclaimed Hugh with 
energy. “I know that! Mr. Nash knows it! Watkins 
knows it!” 

“Then why not make the facts known?” suggested Mr. 
Bellowes. 

“If we did so, we should have a negligible chance of 
establishing our point, and we should certainly lose what¬ 
ever slight chance there may be of finding the treasure. 
I am sure my uncle would have wished us to go after the 
treasure at any cost.” 

“The treasure!” Mr. Bellowes permitted himself a 



24 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


faint smile of amusement. “Am I to understand that 
your lordship has succumbed to this fatal lure ? ’ ’ 

“You may understand I am extremely interested ir 
the possibility of finding it,” retorted Hugh. 

“Dear, dear!” murmured the aged solicitor, genuinely 
distressed. “Surely, you will listen to reason, sir. This 
Fata Morgana—if I may term it so—has exercised an 
evil influence upon your family time out of mind. Youi 
uncle is one of a number of people whose lives have been 
cursed by its futile spell. I do hope you will permit me 
to urge you to abandon an attempt which must infallibly 
dissipate whatever is left of your estate.” 

“But you tell me that the estate is wrecked in any 
case,” replied Hugh. “I do not blame you for one instant 
for being skeptical, Mr. Bellowes. I felt so, myself, until 
recent events forced me to the conclusion that there may 
—notice, please, that I say may—be more to the matter 
than I had imagined. 

“I am anxious to secure your advice, and therefore I 
propose that Mr. Nash and I recount for you and Mr. 
Zaranko precisely what happened in connection with my 
uncle’s visit to New York.” 

So we began at the beginning, with the time I found 
the messenger boy studying the door-card of our apart¬ 
ment, and carried the tale through to Lord Chesby’s death 
in Bellevue. Mr. Bellowes was visibly shocked. 

“I had not supposed such criminals existed any longer,” 
he said. “However, let me draw to your attention the 
fact that these incidents happened in New York. They 
could never have happened in England.” 

“They might have happened anywhere,” interjected 
Nikka, speaking for the first time. 

We turned to him with startled interest. His face was 
very serious as he leaned forward over the table. 

“In the first place,” he continued, “consider this treas¬ 
ure. I have always heard of it as the Treasure of the 


THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 25 


Bucoleon, but I believe it is also sometimes referred to as 
the Treasure of Andronicus.” 

“You mean to say, you, too, have beard of it?” ex¬ 
claimed Mr. Bellowes. 

“Yes. It is well-known in the Near East. I am a 
Gypsy* ^y father before me was Voivode Tzaibidjo, or 
King, of the Balkan Gypsies. Many tales come to my ears, 
for, though my people are scattered far and wide and 
no longer make pretense of being a nation, they still 
honor those who have been their leaders. I have heard, 
for instance, a story that a certain tribe of Gypsies in 
Constantinople guard the supposed site of the treasure. 
But I do not vouch for the story. 

“I do, however, vouch for the statement that Lord 
Chesby is confronting an organized international band of 
criminals with many Gypsy members; and I do not believe 
that such a band would waste time on any enterprise 
which they did not have good reason to believe would 
promise handsome profits.” 

“You mean to say that such a band could operate in 
England to-day?” demanded the old lawyer doubtfully. 

“They can, and almost certainly they do. Crime has in¬ 
creased since the war, remember. The removal of national 
barriers and the unsettlement of conditions have stimulated 
it anew. I know something of this band. If it is the one 
I have heard of we are menaced by the most intelligent 
combination of thieves, murderers and outlaws that ever 
acted together.” 

“What do you know about them?” I asked. 

“I have heard that they are doing a great deal of 
smuggling, and it is in this work that they use the Gypsies 
especially. I have heard, too, of this Toutou you speak 
of. He is usually called Toutou LaFitte, but he has many 
other names. He is said to be a combination of blood¬ 
thirsty monster and intensely clever strategist. The band 
have ramifications in all classes of society, and there are 


26 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


few countries they do not reach. I have no doubt, Hugh, 
they made arrangements in your uncle’s case with some 
affiliated criminal organization in America.” 

“Where do you get all this information?” asked Hugh 
curiously. 

“I am a Gypsy,” answered Nikka. “We Gypsies are 
really a separate people, and I grieve to say our lower 
orders constitute a criminal class. As it happens, I am 
well-known to my people, and many of them come and tell 
me what they hear.” 

“Why don’t you tell this to the police?” demanded 
Mr. Bellowes. 

“What good would it do? The police would laugh at 
me—and I should be stabbed some dark night as I came 
from a concert. No, I can turn my knowledge to better 
use by aiding Lord Chesby in his quest.” 

“It’s blame lucky we have Nikka to help us!” I 
exclaimed. “And I’d like to ask him for his candid 
opinion on the treasure business.” 

“I don’t know,” said Nikka slowly. “I should not like 
to raise Hugh’s hopes, but—Put it this way. I should 
not be surprised if it is true. Before we go any farther, 
let us ascertain the facts we have to go upon.” 

“That is my idea,” agreed Hugh. “Mr. Bellowes, I 
gathered from Watkins that my uncle discussed his dis¬ 
covery with you. Did he indicate precisely what it 
was or where he had found it?” 

Mr. Bellowes joined his fingers tip to tip with meticulous 
precision. A thoughtful expression possessed his face. 

“I might as well admit,” he began, “that you have 
shaken my judgments in the matter. The circumstances 
narrated are extraordinary. I am not prepared to endorse 
your conclusions, yet—Well, that is by the way, your lord- 
ship. 

“Watkins is correct in his supposition. Your uncle did 
discuss his—ah—fancied discovery with me. Aside from 
the fact that he had made it whilst at Chesby—” 







THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 27 

“At Chesby?” Hugh interrupted. 

“So I understood. He came in to see me just before he 
started for Constantinople the last time. I should de¬ 
scribe him as considerably excited. ‘By Jove, Bellowes,’ 
he said, ‘do you know, I’ve found the missing part of 
the Instructions?’ I remember I pooh-poohed his claim, 
and instead of becoming angry, as he usually did, he 
laughed at me. ‘Oh, you may doubt,’ he said, ‘but I am 
going to Constantinople, and I shall soon know whether 
I am correct or not. ’ 

“ ‘You have been to Constantinople before,’ I told him, 
‘but you never obtained any information.’ ‘I lacked the 
key,’ was his answer. ‘To think that all these years no¬ 
body ever found it!’ I ventured to remind him of a 
mortgage coming due, which could be extended only at an 
increased rate, and he replied: ‘We’ll attend to that with¬ 
out any difficulty. I tell you, Bellowes, it’s all perfectly 
plain in the missing half of the Instructions.’ Then he 
had me get out the Charter Chest, saying he wished to go 
over the known half of the Instructions to see if there had 
not been a hint of the hiding-place in that or any of the 
other old documents.” 

“Was there?” questioned Hugh. 

“If there was, he did not tell me, your lordship. He 
went away without any comment, and the next I saw of 
him was perhaps three weeks later when he returned from 
Constantinople. He was even more excited than he had 
been when he came up from Chesby. ‘I really think there’s 
something in it,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d have one of your 
young men send this cable to my nephew. I am going to 
need some young blood in this. It’s there, Bellowes, I 
am persuaded, but we shall have to figure carefully on get¬ 
ting it out.’ ” 

“Humph,” said Hugh. “That’s not much to go on. 
Do you know what he did with the missing half of the 
Instructions he said he found?” 

“No, sir. He never showed it to me, and so far as I 


28 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 
know, lie did not have it in his possession when he w 



“He wouldn’t have carried it, or even a copy of it, if he 
had supposed others had an interest in it,” I interposed. 

“True,” assented Hugh. “Well, let’s have a look at 
the Charter Chest.” 

Mr. Bellowes went to a safe in the corner, and took from 
an inner compartment a bunch of heavy keys, some of 
them comparatively modern, others clumsy and ancient. 
With these he opened lock after lock along front and sides 
of the old chest. Hugh and I carefully raised the lid. 
A musty odor floated up to us, such an odor as you find 
in old books. The chest, itself, was packed with smaller 
boxes, some of wood and some of iron and steel. 

The aged solicitor indicated a massive steel box in one 


corner 


“That contains the Instructions and related documents, 
your lordship,” he said, and lifting it to the table top, 
fitted a small key to the lock. 

There was a click, and the cover flew back. Inside was 
a wooden lid, which Hugh pried up with his thumb-nail, 
and below that a layer of oiled silk, and below that again 
more layers of cloth, silk and linen. Finally, we came to 
several framed parchments, with glasses in front and 
back. 

“Your uncle did that,” explained Mr. Bellowes. “He 
was afraid they would be ruined by handling and ex¬ 
posure. ’ ’ 

The first frame contained a sheet of parchment, I should 
say, twelve inches by ten, covered with minute Black Let¬ 
ter script in a rather corrupt form of mediaeval Latin. 

“That is Hugh’s Instructions,” said the solicitor. “I’d 
advise you not to strain your eyes trying to make out the 
original. We had a very careful translation prepared, 
and checked over by scholars at Oxford.” 

He drew out a typewritten sheet of foolscap, and Nikka 
and I read it over Hugh’s shoulder: 








'' 


Oonimi OH^Ixpnlij'V F<jt, Ku^to hcc (ci 

fil'miu wainii 9ut jwwl tvmmif > 1-fj r-.-. MV i. 

I»p*ra?o|v,\i> 3 *v»»*cu| «•*»• nfc- H*t*> " *) * **• V*-«.c«i'4p/»<»-}. *»j > 

poruwor Mttintifr i-npj*af<>* u«/«k> (•■2tnt ittn*" •» f **M' ’ t^ f U<aiu i *t# 

oH' hnjTrttttcvf iiwoj pjK’r ilfrsm (ffwuit m ua V'js.' ^ 

AwdiwKwfhabiii/ acwiAMi.il (\r Jimwiu wjl.H'ifcnim um -jc ^ 

p, , if t \.<'.»lx|,TK'ino k^ v n^, ftHl-UD I m Mfcuif » ,\£lUir>U f^fictX 

uf ( <io!(*t'.ii.Vi .1 /nor.- m tei- 4 *. fur* • 1 /• 5 < f u/ [«•>■<* *A'«n)yUff** 

»«ci!a pie ad v *:,' l «v< l ' A. fa ha W*.* >•>*!< .,-^ty 

>n,.-m<n r •>.' fetifirffti/. * Q.u- pa/f- i!<«m onui r 

jLj^fc ,«^r»o. mfftMxt-* ■ tw.it.ii w*/.-. m<r«»*ro«/U *«©<> ' : . 

tWani«Np 0 ^ «“«*' Wj \Uu- impt^fcr- honoiqn-f'.'n.* 

fHifftAlt.Hjr'tCiO t cmt.-r-l ,vl ■•*■**«, <•*"©«© 0»> «< 

tlUm aaUo rc®«/ ,l!o {^«ro rvu^a/fct^c 

Iteawlwt ,,'■—( ^ P .-^cr^ {i K .«^^-*S»***«* 

^r.»m.f! .- huhu./ .«u« A^uui-utn nui'ajVi-jW o«tt<rt«rri* rste*utwm* 

Aaoid '»<> aAin«l«d'-aC!0»»<3w ]mp<>r*i oi* «»ca$jV{ ,* AiU'itK'u **auuf^v^fVs^ * * 

fWavi -am iuU£? dsfiOoinW (*<> |0da1<l>uf of mcrvl'wcibt/J j'tnjf* D«n..V 
3 trip^ra^r m«un. ^Mitr.KCi'Cm »KW«'^»>ltuw f^K 

McW li.J^mupcTT.niWo •Vmmaf 

Cmffi^vl-ro co..r'rU 0/ tilttf.. lots'pfc-c/um l»aK>r«nf+ 

wWfrfiX}' «*-*KV Jb^ftwn • .-vit. 

imM* ..orflh.w KWclautf * Pif CAtutmAj^*'* I-Ktciaf f“>' }'«<> . 

f tSmo..... ij« uthKtnum * N.n»;«l "* v.Jco ^ cOntK»W 

^rofllte»w««c titewrfjtHa^jiuA *uoj-a«io iWfcniftjf at. • 

Gc’ticrina <ur Poraaiorw * A*di <>i 90 ■■<) <?*' n:, 1 j 

urni^nf K PuimnuJc url« Cbn|^an£mop«Jij om^rj < junr % 

>4 impvrtum Juum * TTjq'aoru/ iii e »»i> o^t f«'° faiibu j JK. Qmo ^eau^^ico fpKO 

<Vh; ^Maidar^forttmaov^.^ree^Tt^.bu-- »r^form^rtfa 

rM' -k Auf«f€e tk^aarum ^cqttdnx ■'■•«<) 

iworquidam c/ illof .jut vV ttc/aaru cfrfom ncc wn.ur 

arrhadu n ^kr In A%tO«J 7 u.aj l)oiilir(i*' 


JZ 


pitt 


1 























































THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 31 


“INSTRUCTIONS of Hugh, Lord of Chesby. I, Hugh, 
write this for my son, and it may be, those who come after him. 

“In the reign of the Emperor Andronicus Comnenus my 
father visited Constantinople, and the Emperor made much of 
him. At the Emperor’s request my father aided in the disposi¬ 
tion of a certain treasure which Andronicus had amassed by 
confiscating and fining the estates of rebel nobles. None save 
these two knew the location of the treasure. 

“It chanced that my father passed oversea to the Holy Land 
to make good his vows to Our Lady the Virgin, and the Emperor 
Andronicus was slain by his enemies. The Emperor Isaac, who 
succeeded Andronicus, sent urgent messages to my father, bid¬ 
ding him visit Constantinople that the new Emperor might do 
him honor. And in time my father journeyed again to Con¬ 
stantinople, and the Emperor would have had him yield the 
secret of the treasure. But my father would not, because 
Andronicus had obtained from him a solemn oath never to give 
up the treasure to any save one who would spend it for the 
bettering of the Empire, and the new Emperor craved it for 
his courtiers and courtesans. Then the Emperor threw my 
father into prison, and so kept him until Messer Baldwin of 
Flanders and Messer Dandolo of Venice and the barons of the 
Crusade went against the Emperor and smote him down. 

“Ill-fortune continued to beset the Empire, and so my father 
kept the secret. In God’s appointed time he died and passed 
on the secret to me. Now, I, too, see Death riding toward me, 
nor do I fear it, for those I love are in the Shadow Worlds of 
Hell or Purgatory. 

“Harken, then, my son, and those of your seed who come after 
us. The Lords of Constantinople are rotten. Their Empire 
dwindles away. The treasure is not for such as they. There¬ 
fore I say it shall go to augment the fortunes of our house 
and recompense my father’s sufferings. 

“Take it, he who can. But beware the Greeks, for some know 
of the treasure and the secret will not die. 

“In Manus Tuas, Domine.” 

Hugh let fall the typed script, and we all stared rev¬ 
erently at the original parchment under its sheltering glass. 
There was something inexpressibly poignant about these 


32 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


words carried across the ages from a Norman-English 
baron to his modern descendant. 

“Is there anything else?” asked Hugh. “It’s odd, he 
speaks so impressively of going after the treasure, and yet 
he offers no hint of how to find it. Was the secret always 
unknown? But no, of course not! There was that chap 
in Henry the Fifth’s time, and the Elizabethan Hugh. 
They knew where it was.” 

‘ ‘ There is another document here which sheds light upon 
that phase of the mystery, ’ ’ volunteered Mr. Bellowes, and 
he sorted an envelope from the mass of documents in the 
steel box. 

From the envelope he drew a heavy sheet of yellowed 
linen paper inscribed in an angular feminine hand in very 
faded black ink. 

“This was written by the widow of the Elizabethan 
Hugh,” the old solicitor continued. “Her husband, as 
you may remember, my lord, never returned from one of 
his voyages. His lady seems to have been a strong-minded 
person, after the fashion of her royal mistress, indeed. 
She was in charge of the estate for some years in the 
minority of her son, and she evidently used her author¬ 
ity.” 

He spread the paper before us. It was dated “Castle 
Chesby, ye 5th Septr., 1592,” and we read the vigorous 
strokes wfith ease: 

“Forasmuch as yt hath pleased God to sette mee in authorise 
in this my deere late Husband’s place, I have seene fitte to 
Take that Roote of Evill which hath beene ye bane of Oure 
race Fromme oute ye Chartar Cheste and putte yt where yt may 
Wreak noe more Of harmme and Sorrowe. I will not have my 
Sonne awasting of Hys substaunce and hys Life as didde Hys 
deere Fathour. 

“Jane Chesby. 

“Postscriptum. Yette will I leave a trase for Thatte yt might 
seeme Unfaithfull to ye Bead didde I lose thatte whych ys a 
part of ye House’s wealthe.” 


THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 33 

* 1 What do yon make out of that?” I asked in bewilder¬ 
ment. 

Hugh and Mr. Bellowes laughed. 

“I remember hearing of this, but I never saw it before,” 
said Hugh. “Jane Chesby was a character, by all ac¬ 
counts. ’ ’ 

“The tradition,” said the solicitor, “is that the ‘Roote 
of Evill’ was the part of the Instructions containing the 
directions to the location of the treasure. At any rate, 
there is no record of its having been seen since the date 
of Lady Jane’s minute.” 

“But the ‘trase’ she speaks of?” I queried. 

“Nobody has ever found it—unless Lord James did 
so.” 

“What is that on the back of the paper?” Nikka asked. 

“The lady seems also to have been a poetess,” said Mr. 
Bellowes with a smile. 11 They are some lines she scrawled, 
apparently without any reference to the matter on the 
other side.” 

Nikka turned the paper over. The lines were scrawled, 
as the lawyer had said, diagonally across the sheet, as if 
in a moment of abstraction: 

putte Dotone pe anciouttt tin Bel 
In Decettte, §>eemeHe orDour. 

Uouse, 2D pe mp0tlc ^pBH, 

$es JDpmrne tojjo Dotfc dEnOeatiout, 
jl3ot tteate IDps efottte tenDour. 

“A farrago of antique spelling and nonsense,” com¬ 
mented Hugh. “That gets us no farther.” 

“Still, I suggest we take a copy of it with us,” said 
Nikka. 

“It won’t do any harm,” agreed Mr. Bellowes, and he 
called a stenographer and directed him to make copies of 
the two writings. 

“This Lady Jane was a ferocious Protestant,” pursued 


34 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Hugh reflectively. “It was she who blocked up the old 
family crypt, saying it was not fit to bury Protestant 
Chesbys with the Papist lords in a place that had known 
the rites of the Scarlet Woman and all that sort of stuff.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Bellowes, turning from the stenog¬ 
rapher, “and if you recall, my lord, she blocked up the 
crypt so successfully that its exact location has been a 
mystery ever since.” And to us he explained: “It lies 
somewhere under the extensive ruins of Crowden Priory, 
an old monastic establishment which was closely linked with 
Chesby in the Middle Ages.” 

Hugh rose reluctantly. 

“I am afraid we have learned nothing here,” he said. 
“Have we exhausted the Charter Chest?” 

“Unless you wish to read the brief records of the Eliza¬ 
bethan Hugh and his ancestor of Henry the Fifth’s time,” 
replied the lawyer. “Neither furnishes any concrete in¬ 
formation. The one records the suspicion and hampering 
of the Greeks; the other was never allowed about except 
under escort of Janissaries.” 

“Then we have done all we can,” said Hugh. “We’ll 
take the night train for Chesby.” 

Mr. Bellowes suspended his work of returning the sev¬ 
eral documents to their places in the steel box. 

“I do hope you will take thought to whatever you do, 
your lordship,” he urged. “As you see, the trail so far 
is blind, and whatever validity we may attach to your 
uncle’s assertion that he had discovered the clue, it must 
be manifest that you are helpless until you have learned 
as much as he did.” 

“You are quite right,” returned Hugh, somewhat to 
the old gentleman’s surprise. “But we intend to find out 
what my uncle discovered. If he did not overrate his 
achievement, then you may be sure that we shall do every¬ 
thing in our power to obtain the treasure. 

“You must admit that common sense can dictate no other 


THE PAPERS IN THE CHARTER CHEST 35 


course. You say I am ruined as it is. Well, then, I can 
well afford to risk whatever is left on the chance of extri¬ 
cating the estate.” 

The lawyer wagged his gray head sorrowfully. 

“It’s a very sad situation for me, Mister Hugh—beg 
pardon, your lordship,” he sighed. “One way, as you say, 
it’s ruin, to put the facts bluntly. The other way, there’ll 
be terrible danger. Well, sir, I wish you and your friends 
the best of luck, and whatever poor service I can afford 
you you may rely upon.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 

T HE inimitable Watkins met ns at Chesby station 
with a motor in which we were whirled off 
through mirky woods and a half-seen park to a 
low, rambling building of varying architecture set on the 
summit of a saddle-back hill. Lights showed in one wing, 
but the center and other wing were dark. 

“I’m very sorry, your ludship,” apologized Watkins, 
as he assisted us from the car in front of a Tudor arch¬ 
way. “It’s been some years since the ’ouse has been 
opened. Your uncle, ’e was used to living ’ere in the 
Old Wing, and we’re under-staffed, if I may say so, 
your ludship, for—” 

“It suits me, Watty,” returned Hugh. “My friends 
are not company, and of course, we shall not entertain. 
It would be foolish to open up the entire place.” 

He stood on the doorstep, glancing around him at the 
thick, ivy-draped walls and the machicolated parapets 
which lined the roofs. 

“Welcome to Chesby, you chaps,” he hailed us. “It 
gives me a thrill to come here. I haven’t seen it since 
before the war, except for one brief visit two years ago, 
and I haven’t really lived here since I was a lad.” 

A butler no less dignified than Watkins held the door 
open for us, and a palsied footman strove with the valet 
for custody of our scanty baggage. Watkins motioned 
both aside when we entered the high-pitched hall. 

“This way, if you please, your ludship and gentlemen,” 
he said. “I ’ave ’ad supper served in the Gunroom. ’Is 
late ludship used it as a snuggery, as ’e called it, Mister 

Hugh—beg pardon, sir, your ludship—and far m<3re 

36 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 


37 


cheery it is, sir, with a bright fire and all, than the 
other rooms.” 

That s fine,” approved Hugh, and he led us after 
Watkins through a short passage to the right and into a 
big room, with mullioned windows, deeply-embrasured, 
and carved oaken rafters and stone walls showing above 
the rich paneling that rose a tall man’s height from the 
floor. At one side was a vast fireplace, with chimney- 
piece, ingle-nooks and over-mantle elaborately carved. A 
log-fire blazed on the dogs, and before it, warmly illumi¬ 
nated, a table was set with snowy linen and silver em¬ 
blazoned with the Chesby crest, a mailed arm clutching a 
dagger and beneath it an open eye, with the motto “I 
search.” 

Hugh rubbed his hands with satisfaction. 

“This is home,” he said. 

But a shadow instantly chased the smile from his lips. 

“And if Bellowes is correct, it will continue to be my 
home only if we succeed in finding something lost more 
than seven hundred years ago,” he added. 

“If it is to be found we shall find it,” answered Nikka. 
“What a beautiful room!” 

“I was going to say the same thing,” I said. “As an 
architect, I have tried to achieve this effect for rich Ameri¬ 
cans, but I must admit I can’t do with mere money what 
time and many men’s imaginations have accomplished 
here.” 

“And women’s imaginations, too,” replied Hugh. 
“This is the oldest part of the castle, but it has felt 
the influence of that redoubtable Lady Jane you heard 
about this afternoon. I believe this wing is supposed to 
be the remains of the Angevin keep and Great Hall of the 
first Hugh’s castle, which were partially destroyed in the 
Wars of the Roses, and again by fire in Bloody Mary’s 
time. Lady Jane rebuilt this wing and joined it with 
what was then the modern, and early Tudor, central 

17 


mass. 


38 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Curious, I stepped over to the fireplace and examined 
the splendid carvings in deep relief that adorned stone 
and woodwork. High up near the roof on the over¬ 
mantel I discerned the family crest, together with numer¬ 
ous heraldic shields in colors faded and dimmed. But the 
most curious feature of the ornamentation was a lower 
panel supported by a group of bibulous monks in comically 
disordered attitudes. On the panel appeared to be letter¬ 
ing. 

“Watkins,” I called, “bring me a candle, please.’’ 

He lifted a weighty candelabra from the table and 
carried it toward me, Hugh and Nikka trailing him like 
small boys eager to view anything new. As he held it 
aloft, arm-high, the soft light shone on four lines of Gothic 
lettering which had once been gilded. They showed 
clearly in the age-old oak of the paneling: 

Wfoeme tfcatte ye Pappist Cfrurcfmtamte 
iKBouime sebe Ipps foul’s cottteme 
J£ee toofeeneP up ye ffllyssbin gc ^tone 
3nd trod tie ye prior’s Uent. 

“I had forgotten that,” exclaimed Hugh. “It’s some 
more of Lady Jane’s poetry.” 

“She seems to have been rather hipped that way,” I 
suggested. 

“Now you speak of it, I can’t recall any other speci¬ 
mens of her wit in rhyme,” answered Hugh, puzzled. 
“Can you, Watty?” 

“No, your ludship. ’Is ludship, your late uncle, made a 
careful examination of Lady Jane’s papers, but ’e found 
no other verses.” 

“But what was her idea here?” I persisted, for the 
whimsicalness of the thing interested me. 

“Oh, as I told you, she was virulently anti-Catholic,” 
said Hugh carelessly. “It was she, you know, who sealed 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 


39 


up the old family erypt and built a new one in the Priory, 
as the parish church is called. She probably believed 
that the former monks of the Priory had been more inter¬ 
ested in their wine-cellar than in masses.” 

“But the ‘Prior’s Vent’? What on earth is that?” 

“I don’t know, unless it was the way to the wine-cellar. 
Don’t you see the point?” 

“No, I don’t. And this ‘Wysshinge Stone,’ too? What 
could that be?” 

“It must have been something connected with entering 
the wine-cellar. Oh, it’s all perfectly simple, Jack. 
Crowden Priory was one of those establishments guilty 
of abuses which furnished Henry the Eighth with his 
excuse for looting the monastic orders. The facts were 
still a matter of memory in Lady Jane’s time, and she 
took advantage of them to mock the Catholics. That’s all.” 

I did not answer him for I had become engrossed in the 
decorations of the stone mantel, itself, a magnificent piece 
of freestone, sculptured in a frieze of Turks’ heads, 
sphinxes and veiled women, ranged alternately. 

“Well, she—or her masons, I should say—did a fine 
job,” I said at last, tearing myself reluctantly from the 
beautiful courses of stone and the even flags of the hearth. 

“You’ll have plenty of, time to indulge your architect’s 
eye hereabouts,” declared Hugh from the table. “Come 
and eat or Nikka will leave you nothing. Watty, what 
is the news?” 

The valet deposited a chafing dish and stand by my 
place. 

“Mr. Penfellow, the Vicar, your ludship, instructed me 
to tell you the service for ’is late ludship would be to¬ 
morrow morning, as you requested. ’E had made all ar¬ 
rangements consequent upon receiving your ludship’s 
cablegram. Oh, yes, sir, and Mr. Hilyer was over from 
Little Depping this afternoon in a motor—with some 
ladies, sir—and asked after you. ’E said ’e would be at 
the funeral, sir.” 


40 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 

Hugh frowned. 

“I will not have anything to do with that bounder,” he 
grunted. 

‘ * ’E ’as quite a lively time, so the servants tell me, your 
ludship,” volunteered Watkins. “A regular ’ouse-party 
’e’s entertaining now, with foreign gentry and all.” 

“They would be foreign,” retorted Hugh. “He can’t 
get a decent Englishman inside his house, and if he thinks 
I shall fall for him just because I’ve spent two years in 
America—” he broke into a sudden grin—“It’s rather 
funny, Jack. I expect he believes I’ve been metamor¬ 
phosed into a bloomin’ democrat. The bounder!” 

“What’s the matter with the man?” inquired Nikka. 

“Everything! The Hilyers own the next place to us 
—Little Depping, it’s called. They were always decent 
enough people, but this chap, Montey Hilyer, is a wrong 
’un. He got into trouble before the War with the Stewards 
of the Jockey Club and was barred from the course. Then 
he picked up a reputation as a card-sharp and society 
gambler. For a while he used to hang around Continental 
resorts and fleece the innocent. 

“When the War came he enlisted, made a splendid 
record and earned a commission. The next thing that 
happened was a scandal in his mess over heavy play, and 
he was compelled to resign. He’s a bad egg, through and 
through. Odd, though, how he keeps up Little Depping. 
I believe he’s been on short rations more than once, but 
he always has managed to preserve the estate—and like 
me, he’s the last of the line.” 

Watkins removed the savory, and received a platter 
of sandwiches from the butler, who he permitted to come 
no farther than the door. 

“And your ludship may remember Mr. Hilyer married 
some years ago—before ’e got into trouble, sir,” he ob¬ 
served as he placed the platter before us. “She was, if 
I may say so, your ludship, not one of us.” 

Watkins contrived to express deep disapprobation, with- 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 


41 


out wrinkling or contorting his countenance, a trick at 
which I always marveled. 

11 Quite so,” assented Hugh. “She was an actress or 
something like that. Well, it’s in the beggar’s favor that 
he married her. But they can’t come footling around here. 
I’d have the whole County up in arms against me.” 

We chatted on for a while, and then Watkins guided us 
to the upper story where three adjoining bedrooms had 
been made ready. 

“The bathroom is across the ’all, sir,” he informed me, 
stopping at my door on his way from Hugh’s room. “My 
room is beside it. You ’ave only to ring, sir, if you wish 
anything. Good night, sir.” 

As he left, I reflected with a grin that I had not been 
so coddled since my schooldays as in the brief period 
following his adoption of Hugh and myself. For that 
was what it amounted to. For all his deference and ser¬ 
vility, neither Hugh nor I would have dared to withstand 
any wish which Watkins gave serious expression to, and 
furthermore, he made us feel constantly that we were ob¬ 
ligated to maintain a certain standard of conduct, which 
be, Watkins, might find satisfaction in. 

I was up early the next morning, and a brief scouting 
tour revealed Nikka’s room empty, while Hugh snoozed 
blissfully on. So I shaved and bathed, and descended the 
broad, shallow staircase into the entrance hall below. This 
wing, I noted, seemed to be shut off entirely from the re¬ 
mainder of the house. At any rate, there were no open cor¬ 
ridors. 

Watkins was arranging flowers in a luster bowl on a 
table under an oriel window, and I mentioned this fact to 
him as I stood on the lowest step, drinking in the wonder¬ 
ful satisfaction of a perfectly designed and furnished en¬ 
trance, something that it takes the average architect ten 
years to learn how to do. 

“You are right, sir,” he answered. “There are cor¬ 
ridors, but they shut off, in order to save heat, sir, and 


42 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


prevent draughts. Since the death of the old lord, sir— 
Mister Hugh’s grandfather—we ’ave ’ad such a small 
family that no occasion was found for all the rooms. And 
the old wing, sir, is a large ’ouse by itself.” 

“Well, that makes so much less for us to defend,” I 
said. 

“Beg pardon, sir?” 

“In case our friends of Toutou’s gang should try to 
attack us,” I explained. 

But Watkins was as positive as Mr. Bell owes that such 
things could not transpire in England. 

“Oh, sir, sure I am you need not concern yourself for 
that,” he said seriously. “They would never dare. The 
constabulary, sir—and all that.” 

“Perhaps,” I said. “What is that music?” 

He inclined his ear towards the door of a room that 
opened from the opposite side of the hall to the Gun¬ 
room. 

“Oh, sir. That’s Mister Nikka. ’E’s in the music room 
aplaying to ’imself, sir.” 

I crossed to the half-open door and peered inside. 
Nikka was sitting at a pianoforte in a flood of sunshine, 
and the music poured from his lips and fingers, like the 
sunshine, passionately intense, warm and vital. It stirred 
me as I listened, searching out primitive impulses, paint¬ 
ing sound-pictures of outlandish scenes, spreading exotic 
odors over that conventional room. It was rebellious, un¬ 
civilized, untamed—and I liked it. 

He crooned to himself, rather than sang, but the words 
and the melody, savage, melancholy, joyously-somber, beat 
their way into my brain: 

Sad is the ache in my heart; 

The cities crowd me in. 

I may not breath for their stench, 

My ears are deaf from their din. 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 


43 


Let me go forth from their ways, 

Out where the road runs free, 

Twisting over the Balkan hills 
Down to the restless sea. 

The dust shall caress my feet, 

The sun shall warm my limbs, 

The trees shall tell me their thoughts 
At dusk as the twilight dims. 

And I shall inhale the smoke 
Of fires beside the road; 

I shall hear the camels grunt 
As the drivers shift their loads. 

And best of all, I shall hear 
The wild, mad Tzigane songs, 

Cruel and gay and lustful, 

Like fiddles and clanging gongs. 

And in the glare of the campfires 
I shall see the Tziganes dance— 

Women with lithe, round bodies, 

Men straight as a heiduek’s lance. 

And perhaps a wild brown maiden 
Will seek me amongst the throng, 

And dance with me down the twisting road 
To a wild, mad Tzigane song. 

He ended with a crashing of keys, and looked up to meet 
my fascinated gaze. 

“You liked it?” he asked shyly. “I can see you did. 
It is a little song I have made out of the heart-beats of my 
people. We Gypsies can make music, if nothing else. And 
all Gypsy music should be played on strings. Only the 
fiddle can reach the heights and depths of human emotion. 


44 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


But I have put my fiddle away from me until we have 
finished this job.” 

He walked over and slipped his arm through mine. 

‘‘Let us see what Watty has for breakfast,” he went 
on, “and send him to awaken that lazy-bones, Hugh.” 

“But see here, Nikka,” I broke in. “Are you really 
a Gypsy? In the usual sense of the word?” 

He considered as he explored a fruit-dish. 

* ‘ I don’t know what you mean by ‘ the usual sense of the 
word/ ” he answered finally. “I am a Gypsy by birth 
and blood. I passed my boyhood with the caravans. I 
learned to play the fiddle with the Gypsy maestros of 
Hungary.” 

“It’s funny,” I admitted, “but I never quite envisaged 
you as a Gypsy until I heard you sing that song.” 

Nikka smiled. 

‘ ’ I can understand that. I made up that song because I 
was feeling the lure of the blood. The Gypsy in me has 
been crying out for assertion. I think that is one reason 
why I was so glad to have Hugh call on me. I smelled 
in his need a chance to sample the old, wild life again.” 

“Do you believe the Gypsies play a part in this treasure 
business?” I asked. 

He nodded. 

“I feel it in my bones. It is a Gypsy tradition, remem¬ 
ber. Probably we shall find the interest of some Tzigane 
tribe crossing our’s.” 

“And then?” 

“My tribe fight for Hugh.” 

“Your tribe?” 

“Surely, I have a tribe. They fight for my hand and 
for my friends.” 

I regarded him with increased respect. 

1 hat has a delightfully mediaeval sound. It strikes 
me you are going to be the most valuable member of this 
expedition.” 

“All for one, and one for all,” laughed Nikka. 


THE GUNROOM AT CASTLE CHESBY 


45 


He waved a greeting to Hugh, who came in at that mo¬ 
ment. 

“We are talking about Gypsies and fighting,’’ he ex¬ 
plained. 

’‘And it seems that Nikka is a potentate who has a tribe 
to carry out his wishes, ’ ’ I amended. 

“I wish we had his tribe here to help us pull down 
this old stone-box,” answered Hugh gloomily. “How 
else are we going to uncover any hiding-places? And I 
feel like fighting when I remember that we are going to 
Uncle James’s funeral this morning. Well, the best way 
to fight, I suppose, is to search. That’s the family motto. 
Jack, you’ll have a first rate opportunity to investigate 
early structural methods in English architecture. I ex¬ 
pect you’ll be the only one to get anything out of the 
affair.” 

Which last was a very poor piece of prophecy. 


CHAPTER V 


A BLIND ALLEY 

M R. PENFELLOW, the Yicar received us at the 
west door of the parish church, a gigantic 
edifice which was all that was left of the once 
noble foundation of the Priory of St. Cuthbert of Crowden. 
With verger and curate, both striving mightily to equal his 
solemn countenance, he escorted Hugh—and incidentally, 
Nikka and me—up the center aisle to a high-walled pew 
directly under the choir. Immediately behind us, Watkins 
was marshaling the slender array of servants from Castle 
Chesby, all of whom had come to pay the lost honors to 
their dead master. 

The church was so large that the considerable congre¬ 
gation were swallowed up in its echoing nave. The tran¬ 
septs contained nothing save monuments and tombs. 
The tempered light that stole through stained-glass win¬ 
dows left most of the space in shadow, but I descried 
beyond the breadth of the crossing a second box-like pew 
identical with ours, and in it a company whose gay rai¬ 
ment and gabbling ways were out of place in contrast 
with the stolid piety of the village folk and neighboring 
gentry. 

“ There’s Hilyer,” muttered Hugh in my ear, as the 
verger pompously presented his mace and the Vicar with¬ 
drew toward the altar. 

But we had no time to spare for observing the county’s 
black sheep. Mr. Penfellow’s quavering, nasal voice be¬ 
gan to intone the stately rite of the Established Church 
for the dead. The shrill voices of the choir-boys responded. 
Our eyes became fastened upon the oblong casket, resting 



A BLIND ALLEY 


47 


on its low catafalque under the choir railing, which con¬ 
tained the body of James Chesby, that quaint, whimsical, 
Twentieth Century knight errant, who had upheld the 
traditions of his race by tilting over the world in pursuit 
of a prize which all sober men proclaimed to be impossible 
of attainment. 

And he had as good as found it! Laughed at, derided, 
mocked and ridiculed, he had persisted doggedly in what 
he had regarded as his life-work. He had succeeded where 
all others had failed or feared to venture. And at the 
last, probably when he envisaged complete success in his 
grasp, he had accepted death rather than yield the prize 
to any but his heir. He must have had good stuff in 
him, that slight, wan-faced slip of a man, whom I had 
only seen as he lay on his death-bed in the hospital, his 
eyes shining to the end with indomitable spirit. 

As I thought of him, cut and hacked by that brute Tou- 
tou, I found my fingers clenching on the book-rack in front 
of me; and glancing down, I saw Hugh’s knuckles, too, 
were white. We exchanged a grim glance. For the first 
time we understood fully that we were playing a man’s 
game, a game in which there was no limit. And we 
experienced the thirst for action which comes from a de¬ 
sire to slake unsatisfied vengeance. This task we had set 
ourselves to was more than a hunt for treasure. It was 
likewise a pursuit of James Chesby’s murderers. 

Nikka must have read somewhat of our thoughts in our 
faces, for he reached behind me and slid a hand over 
Hugh’s straining knuckles; and I saw that his lips were 
shut tight and his eyes blazing like coals under their eagle 
brows. And then my eyes chanced to stray toward the 
opposite side of the crossing, and in the shadows that 
hovered over the Hilyer pew I glimpsed a pair of eyes 
that gleamed with the evil green light of a beast of prey. 
For an instant only they showed. Then the shadows 
moved, and they disappeared. Startled, I looked again, and 
saw nothing. It must have been fancy, I told myself, 


48 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


a trick of the sunbeams filtered through the particolored 
glass of the windows. And I turned my ear to the cad- 
enced voice of the Vicar: 

“Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time 
to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is 
cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and 
never continueth in one stay.” 

The formal service was soon ended, and after the con¬ 
gregation had filed out, a little knot of men from Chesby 
farms poised the casket on their shoulders and paced 
slowly after Mr. Penfellow and the verger down the broad, 
winding stairs to the pillared crypt. At the east end, 
beneath the altar, the verger unlocked a massy oaken door 
and behind that an iron grate. There was a minute’s de¬ 
lay while he lit tall candles, and then the little procession 
marched on into the last resting-place of the Chesbys. 

It was an octagonal chamber, Tudor in style and extraor¬ 
dinarily spacious, the groined roof springing lightly from 
slender pillars. At the far end was a simple altar, and 
all around the other segments of the octagon were ledges 
in two tiers. At intervals over the floor space were tombs 
and sarcophagi. The flickering candles brought out an 
occasional inscription. 

“Hugh James Cuthbert.twenty-eighth Baron 

Chesby.” 

“Claudia Anne, Lady Chesby, aetat 34, beloved. 

James, twenty-first.” 

On several coffins reposing on the side ledges there were 
the moldering remnants of old flags. On one lay an 
officer’s cocked hat and sword, tarnished and covered with 
dust. 

Mr. Penfellow was bowing to Hugh. 

“The—ah—space next your grandfather, I suppose?” 

Hugh nodded dumbly, and the men carrying the casket 
shifted it gently into the niche adjoining the twenty-eighth 





A BLIND ALLEY 


49 


baron’s. Once they had set it in place, we were at some 
difficulty to distinguish it from those above and on either 
side of it. They were all exactly alike. And how dif¬ 
ferent, probably, had been the men and women they 
held! 

Hugh stumbled forward, and knelt beneath his uncle’s 
casket. Nikka, beside me, breathed hastily in my ear: 

“I can’t stand this, Jack. How can people be buried 
in stone vaults? I’m choking.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he slipped away between 
the pillars, and I was left alone with Mr. Penfellow. The 
verger was just shepherding the pall-bearers through the 
gate. 

I “A very sad chapter in the glorious history of this 
ancient family, Mr. Nash,” murmured the vicar with moist 
eyes. ‘‘But surely no man could hope for a grander 
Valhalla.” 

He gestured toward the encircling tombs. 

“All of the line since Elizabethan times. That is, all 
the lords and their ladies. Cadets and collaterals are 
buried elsewhere in the church. Have you heard the story 
of Lady Jane Chesby, the builder of this chamber ? Ah! 
Very interesting, is it not? Her own husband was lost at 
sea, you know. But here is an empty tomb she reared to 
him. ’ ’ 

He led me to the handsomest sarcophagus in the center 
of the chamber. On the marble lid was carved life-size 
the effigy of a man in half-armor, sea-boots and morion. 
In his hands, clasped upon his breast, he grasped a sex¬ 
tant. 

The lettering of the inscription on the side I hastily 
deciphered as: 

“ 31 ames apattfceto fcpmmer, 1531011 C&es&p, 
l^eretittarie Uangare of CtotoDene iKHooDe, 
aomitaU of ge £Uieene’$ ©racious ega/estie, 




50 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 

Scourge of pe §>panlarD0 attD all papists aitD 
SnfiDells, Host at §>ea, 3 mto apuD. 1590 .” 

And underneath this; 

“Deere HorD, 3 , timtte teas pr leeDfellotoe, 
Do reate tbps tbatte pf pt please <£>oDDe so to Do 
atto ^>ee firlnge gou to mp ^>tDe there sbal not 
Jlacfee a ^pace.” 

“The famous Lady Jane rests under the adjoining 
sarcophagus with the plain lid,” continued the Vicar. “I 
wish we might find the old crypt. It is somewhere under 
the Priory grounds but she concealed it very effectually. 
The tradition is that the old lords were buried in their 
mail. They were all noted as warriors. Ah, Lord 
Chesby,” as Hugh rose and walked over to us. “This 
has been very sad, very sad, indeed. And yet, as I was 
saying to Mr. Nash, it is something for a man after he 
dies to be brought back to wait the Last Trump in such 
glorious company.” 

“I am afraid I have been thinking of the criminals 
who murdered my uncle,” said Hugh curtly. “You have 
been very kind, sir. I should like to thank you and every¬ 
body else for what they have done. Where’s Nikka, 
Jack? Gone up? Do you mind if we leave you to shut 
the vault, Mr. Penfellow? Thank you again.” 

He hooked his arm in mine, and together we passed out 
of that sepulchral chamber, with its great company of 
illustrious dead. Upstairs in the church porch Nikka was 
awaiting us, breathing in deep gusts of the air that blew 
in tinctured with the perfume of Crowden Forest that 
stretched all around the village. 

“I’m sorry, Hugh,” he exclaimed, taking Hugh’s other 
arm, “I couldn’t wait. There’s something in me that 
rebels against your churches. I feel the same way about 
mosques and synagogues, for that matter. And as for be- 


A BLIND ALLEY 


51 


ing buried, down in a close, stone-lined hole in the ground, 
herded in with other dead! ’ ’ He shivered violently. 

I hope not! If there is a God—and there must be 
some kind of one to make the trees and hills and the grass 
and to put music in one’s heart—why, I pray to Him 
that I shall lie on a hillside, with only the trees around 
me and the sun beating down.” 

Hugh smiled. 

“Each to his own, Nikka. You are a Gypsy, a son of 
the open road. I am an Englishman, son to these stone 
walls, that old house we came from. I cannot get away 
from it. I am bound up with them. So long as they 
and I last we shall be indivisible.” 

“And what am I?” I demanded lightly. 

“You? You are an American. The world is your 
oyster. You can be satisfied in any way, in Nikka’s way 
or in mine.” 

It was a scant ten minutes’ walk through the park to 
Castle Chesby. As we entered the drive, Watkins, who 
had driven back with the servants, came around the house 
from the stables and started to run toward us. 

“Somebody broke in whilst we were at church, your 
ludship,” he panted when he was within earshot. 

We were all startled. 

“Anything missing?” questioned Hugh sharply. 

“I can’t say as yet, your ludship. They seem to ’ave 
been only in the unoccupied parts. I fancy, sir, they 
’adn’t the time to go through the West Wing.” 

We hastened into the house after him. A rear door in 
the center of the castle—it was really more of a manor 
than a castle in style—had been forced. Desks, wardrobes, 
chests of drawers, closets, armories, every corner or piece of 
furniture that might conceal anything had been thoroughly 
ransacked. Drawers and their contents were still piled 
helter-skelter on the floor. 

“Do you suppose they could have found anything?” 
I asked. 


52 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Watkins shook his head positively. 

“I am sure they could not, Mr. Nash, sir. I think I 
know most of the stuff that they have gone through. Oh, 
in a very general way, your ludship, to be sure. But I am 
sure ’is late ludship was not in the ’abit of keeping any¬ 
thing he was precious of in the East Wing or the Main 
’Ouse, sir.” 

We left Watkins to supervise the servants in reestablish¬ 
ing order in the upset rooms, and returned to the West 
Wing. In the Gunroom, Hugh lit a cigarette and strad¬ 
dled his legs in front of the fire. Nikka and I dropped 
into the lounge that faced the hearth. 

‘‘Well?” said Hugh, and his lips had resumed the 
grim line I had noticed in church. 

“Who are they?” I suggested. 

“Good idea,” approved Hugh, and he rang the bell by 
the door. 

Watkins arrived with the celerity of a djin. 

“Watty, I wish you’d make inquiries along the roads, 
and find out if any strangers have been seen around the 
place this morning. Oh, yes, and tell the servants not to 
talk. You understand? Not to talk. The man or woman 
who talks is to be dismissed.” 

“That was another good idea,” said Nikka. “Our best 
bet is to keep our mouths shut. They, whoever, they are, 
have us guessing. Maybe we can make them guess a little. 
And that reminds me, do you realize that they have saved 
us quite a bit of searching?” 

“You mean in turning two-thirds of the house upside 
down?” answered Hugh. 

“Just that. And I’d suggest that we waste no time 
in going thoroughly over this wing, ourselves.” 

We set to work with gusto. On my suggestion—they 
nominated me captain in this enterprise because of my 
supposed architectural knowledge—we commenced with 
the Gunroom. We examined it from end to end, tapped 


A BLIND ALLEY 


53 


the paneling for secret recesses, examined the furniture. 
No result. 

After luncheon, we began on the upper floor and went 
over the entire wing in detail. We measured the dif¬ 
ferent rooms. I even took outer measurements. We 
studied chimneys. We sounded floors. We took to pieces 
every article of furniture which might have concealed a 
secret drawer—and we found several hidden receptacles, 
by the way, but they contained nothing beyond ordinary 
family letters and trash. Immersed in the hunt and 
baffled by lack of success, we caused Watkins to put off 
dinner, and worked on until after nine o’clock. Still no 
success. 

We went to bed that night, tired out and disgusted. 
But in the morning we arose with sharpened interest and 
determined to canvas the possibilities in the parts of the 
house the invaders had searched. Again we took careful 
measurements, inside and out. Again we sounded panel¬ 
ing, investigated recesses and chimney spaces. We 
hunted for two days. Then we went back, and reexamined 
the West Wing a second time. We ended up in stark 
disappointment in the Gunroom. 

‘‘Damn it all!” ripped Hugh. “The trouble is that 
my family were not Catholics in the times when priests 
were proscribed, and every self-respecting Catholic family 
had its Priest’s Hole.” 

“I’m not worried just because your family can’t boast 
an accessible hiding-place,” I retorted. “What bothers 
me is that their hiding-place, if they have one, is so 
cunningly hidden that we can’t find it.” 

“ ‘If they have one,’ ” repeated Hugh. “You may 
well say that! I am beginning to believe we may be on 
a wild goose chase, after all.” 

“If we were the only ones after it, I might think so,” I 
replied. 

Nikka, who had relapsed into one of his frequent spells 


54 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


of silent contemplation, jumped suddenly from his chair. 

“If it is here, it is in this room,” he said. 

“Is that a Gypsy prophecy?” jeered Hugh. 

There was a racket of motors outside in the drive, and 
Watkins appeared in the doorway. 

“Pardon, your ludship. But I thought you would wish 
to know Mr. Hilyer and ’is party ’ave just driven up.” 

‘ ‘ The devil they have! ’ ’ exclaimed Hugh. 1 ‘ I suppose 
we’ll have to see ’em.” 

But Watkins lingered in the doorway. 

“What is it?” 

Watkins cleared his throat. 

“You may remember you instructed me to inquire if 
strangers ’ad been seen on the roads ’ereabouts the morn¬ 
ing of the funeral, your ludship.” 

Hugh nodded. 

“Mrs. Dobson at the Lodge said nobody passed on the 
village road, your ludship. And I made other inquiries, 
but without success until I met ’Iggins, the carpenter, 
sir, this morning. ’E said one of Mr. Hilyer’s motors 
passed on the London road close on noon, but that was 
all.” 

“Well, that doesn’t help any,” said Hugh. “Whoever 
did it must have taken to the woods and cut across to the 
Channel road.” 

“They need only ’ave dropped over the park wall to 
reach the London Road, your ludship,” suggested Wat¬ 
kins. 

“Oh, I see your point,” agreed Hugh. “Then Hilyer’s 
people might have seen them. I’ll find an opportunity to 
speak to him about it.” 

“Thank you, your ludship.” 

And Watkins withdrew. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE HILYER PARTY 

/f~R. and Mrs. Ililyer, your ludship!” 

% / 9 And never in my life have I seen anything 

J*.. ▼ JL niore splendid than the emotionless disap¬ 
proval with which Watkins was able to invest his coun¬ 
tenance as he announced our callers. 

Hilyer was a lean, rangy chap, with a hatchet face and 
close-set eyes. His mustache was waxed in the Continen¬ 
tal fashion, and he had slim, powerful hands, the hands 
of a born horseman and gambler. He looked what he was: 
good blood gone wrong. 

His wife was a handsome, statuesque woman, awfully 
well turned out. She was absolutely in the mode, as per¬ 
fect as a show-girl in a Gayety production. And she had 
cold eyes that saw everything, and never lost their icy 
glitter even when her manner was warmest. 

11 Hullo, Hugh! ’ ’ exclaimed Hilyer. 1 ‘ Frightfully glad 
to see you home again, but rotten sorry for the occasion. 
You don’t know Mrs. Hilyer, I believe.” 

Hugh bowed to her with cold precision. 

“ Thanks, Hilyer—” just a shade of emphasis on the 
family name—“it was kind of you to come. We are keep¬ 
ing bachelors’ hall, Mrs. Hilyer, and I am afraid our 
entertaining resources are limited.” 

“Don’t let that bother you,” protested Mrs. Hilyer 
affably, “and if you and your friends want any lively 
diversion on the quiet, remember we keep liberty hall 
over at Little Depping. We wanted our—” 

But I lost the thread of her conversation as I found 

myself staring into those same evil green eyes that I had 

55 



56 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


seen peering out of the shadows of the Hilyer pew the 
morning of the funeral. The man they belonged to had 
entered the room immediately after the Hilyers. He 
would have challenged attention in any company with his 
amazing personality, the strange force that radiated from 
him. He had the long arms, short, thick legs and enor¬ 
mous body of a gorilla, capped by a beautifully-modeled 
head. His forehead was high; his clean-shaven face was 
very white; his jaw was square, without being prognathous. 
But his eyes were his outstanding feature. They were 
large and vividly green like a cat’s. 

The man baffled you. The expression of his face was 
dreamy, preoccupied. He had the appearance of a 
thinker, a recluse. But underneath his outward seeming 
I sensed another self, lurking as if in ambush. He was 
handsome in an intellectual way. Yet I found him re¬ 
pulsive. 

Hilyer, undeterred by Hugh’s frosty greeting, dropped 
his hand on this man’s shoulder, and began introducing 
him. I noticed that the Englishman let his hand lie there 
only a minute, and then almost snatched it away. 

“Signor Teodoreschi, gentlemen! The Italian chemist. 
And my other friends, Countess Sandra Vassilievna and 
Count Serge Yassilievich! I ought to explain they are 
brother and sister!” 

This last with a well-bred leer. 

“And Hilmi Bey, gentlemen! If you knew your Levant, 
you would recognize him without introduction.” 

I saw Nikka shift his attention at this from the two 
Russians to the Levantine, an olive-skinned individual, 
good-looking in a portly way, with a predatory beaked 
nose, effeminate eyes and a sensual mouth. 

“You see we’re rather an international crowd—what?” 
Mrs. Hilyer was drawling. “Matter of fact, Lord Chesby, 
we might muster another race or two.” 

“Very interesting, I’m sure,” said Hugh, cold as ever. 
“You won’t mind if I present my friends to you as a 


THE HILYER PARTY 


57 


group? Thanks. This is Mr. Zaranko—and Mr. Nash.” 

“Not Mr. Nikka Zaranko?” exclaimed Mrs. Hilyer. 
“Oh, I say, it is a treat to meet you! How wonderfully 
you play!” 

And she wrenched Nikka away from his obvious intent 
to probe the Levantine, and carried him off to a corner, 
along with Vassilievich, a slim-waisted, old-young man, 
with a hard, dissipated face. Hilmi, after a look around, 
joined the gorilla-like Italian, who was turning the pages 
of a review on the table, with occasional flashing glances 
about the room. Montey Hilyer was volubly describing 
the prospects of the racing season to Hugh, and I was 
left by process of elimination to entertain the Countess 
Sandra Vassilievna. 

I think both Hugh and Nikka envied me the chance. 
She was a dark girl, with great, sleepy, almond-shaped 
eyes and a sinuous, willowy figure. 

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” she said with a 
very slight accent. “How do you happen to know Lord 
Chesby ? ’ ’ 

I explained to her. 

“He went to New York to earn his living! Ah, that is 
an old story, Mr. Nash. Look at my brother and me! 
Exiles! Forced to turn our hands to whatever we can 
do. The Old World is a sad place* these days.” 

I felt like telling her that I didn’t believe it would 
hurt her sort to do a little work, but instead I asked her 
what she did do. 

“Oh, anything,” she replied evasively. “Secretarial 
work when I can get it. And you? What shall you and 
your friends do now? But I suppose you will help Lord 
Chesby enjoy the life of an English country gentleman.” 

“For a while, yes,” I agreed. 

“And then?” 

“I don’t know. America, I suppose. One must earn a 
living.” 

“So you would leave him—Lord Chesby, I mean?” 


58 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


I began to have a disagreeable feeling that I was being 
pumped. 

“I can’t stay here forever, you know,” I retorted. 

“Ah, but of course! And Lord Chesby? Will he 
marry an heiress, an American, perhaps ? But no! He 
does not need money, they say.” 

“ ‘They say’ a great many things,” I commented. 

“It may be he did ill to leave America,” she suggested. 
“One is so safe there. In Europe, who can say what the 
future holds? Russia is chaos. Turkey torn by war. 
Eastern Europe boiling. Germany thirsting for ven¬ 
geance. Ah, Mr. Nash, were I an American I should stay 
at home.” 

“That sounds almost like a threat,” I laughed. 

“God forbid!” she ejaculated with true Russian piety. 
“It is that I envy you your security. All Serge and I 
can do is to wait and plot and plot and wait.” 

“Are you staying in England?” I asked. 

“Only temporarily. We shall be in Paris shortly. 
Perhaps you would care to call when you—” 

‘I haven’t any present intention of going to Paris,” I 
cut in. 

“I can’t believe you,” she replied. “Don’t all good 
Americans expect to go to Paris when they die ? Perhaps 
you will travel elsewhere, no?” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“You Americans are so venturesome,” she sighed. 
“One never really knew you as a people until the War.” 

I happened to look up at that moment, and surprised 
the Italian in one of his lightning surveys of the room. 

“Your friend there seems exclusive,” I remarked. 

“Oh, he?” she said hastily. “He speaks no English, 
and he is sensitive about it. He talks little in any case. 
These scientists, you know.” 

Hilmi Bey left the Italian’s side, and sauntered 
to us. 


over 


THE HILYER PARTY 


59 


“A beautiful old room,” he said. “Has it any his¬ 
tory ? ’ ’ 

“It’s the oldest part of the present building,” I told 
him. “I understand it represents a reconstruction dur¬ 
ing Elizabeth’s reign.” 

“Ah! Faultless taste, isn’t?” He swung around on 
me. “They tell me you are an architect. You must ap¬ 
preciate such a good job.” 

The fellow spoke very pleasantly, and yet there was 
something about him that aroused in me a continual de¬ 
sire to punch his face. 

“You can’t beat the old people who worked slowly and 
lovingly,” I answered, forcing myself to be civil. 

“That is a gorgeous fireplace,” said the Countess. 

“Ah, yes,” he agreed, with his absurdly broad pronun¬ 
ciation. “Rather a quaint verse there, too, I see. How 
does it run?” 

He picked it out slowly, with some help from the Rus¬ 
sian girl. 

mbcmc t&atte pc Pappi 0 t C&urclmtamte 
JKHouDDe sebe fyps foul’s contente 
toofeenetJ up pc a2Jp00iitttge Sterne 
3 ttD trot tie pc prior’s Oettt. 

“Deuced odd! What does it all mean?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “Nor has any¬ 
body else. It seems like a gratuitous slap at a certain 
religion, and as the author of the lines was noted for her 
religious bias, that is probably as good an explanation as 
any other.” 

Our conversation had attracted the attention of the 
others, and Mrs. Hilyer drew Nikka and the Count in 
front of the chimney-piece. 

“You don’t suppose there could be some secret mean¬ 
ing to those words, do you?” she asked. 


60 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“I wish you’d pick it out for me,” I countered. 

That was a query I had often put to myself. 

“A key to something else, you know,” she went on. 
“Our ancestors were fond of that sort of thing. They 
loved mystery, and life wasn’t as safe in those days as it 
is in ours. ’ ’ 

“It’s perfectly thrilling,” cried the Countess. “This 
is just the kind of room to house some wonderful secret 
—or perhaps a tragedy.” 

“At any rate, her meaning is successfully concealed,” 
I said. “Always supposing she had a meaning.” 

I felt something behind me, and turned my head. The 
Italian had left the table in the center of the room and 
moved up to the fringe of our group. His green eyes, 
flaring with an uncanny vital force, were intent upon 
the rhyme on the overmantel. 

“Humph,” I thought to myself, “you may not be able 
to speak English, but you appear to be able to read 
it.” 

He growled something in an undertone to Mrs. Hilyer, 
and she nodded. 

‘ ‘ Fascinating as your room is, I am afraid we must leave 
you, Lord Chesby,” she called over to Hugh. “Signor 
Teodoreschi had just reminded me we have to put him 
on the London train before w r e drive home.” 

“I’ll have your motors called up,” returned Hugh im¬ 
passively, as he and Hilyer joined the rest of us. 

He rang and gave the necessary orders to Watkins. 

“You really must come over and have a bit of bridge 
with us,” Mrs. Hilyer bowled along merrily. “Of course, 
I know you are in mourning, but even so, you ought not 
to deny yourself all pleasure. Any evening at all. Do 
make it soon. So glad to have met you, Mr. Zaranko. I 
can’t tell you how sorry I am you won’t play for us. Mr. 
Nash, I’ve hardly had a word with you, but we’ll better 
that over at Little Depping, won’t we?” 

The Countess extended her hand to me. 


THE HILYER PARTY 


61 


“I hope you will accept Mrs. Hilyer’s invitation,’’ she 
4 said, her eyes glowing softly. “It's such a pleasure to 
meet Americans. I’d love to ride with you one day this 
week.” 

“I’ll ring you up,” I prevaricated, feeling very much 
like doing it, if the truth be known—she had a way with 
her, that girl. 

“And don’t forget that tip on Krugersdorp for the 
St. Leger,” I heard Hilyer insist to Hugh. “I’m not 
so sure about the Derby. When you run over to see us, 
I’ll let you have a look at a sweet little filly I’m groom¬ 
ing for steeplechase work. You aren’t takin’ on any 
hunters, are you ? I’ve— ’ ’ 

“By the way,” Hugh interrupted. “I meant to ask 
you: did any of your people see strangers around here 
the morning of my uncle’s funeral?” 

I was amazed at the sudden silence that gripped the 
room. The Italian, Teodoreschi, already in the doorway 
after a curt nod of farewell, stopped dead and stared hard 
at Hugh. 

“You see,” Hugh continued, “I heard one of your cars 
was seen on the London Road in back of the park, and 
if—” 

“But, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Hilyer, “what’s the 
trouble ? There are always strangers passing through 
Chesby. You’ve got two trunk highways, remember.” 

“Quite so,” agreed Hugh. “But I’m anxious to know 
whether any strangers were seen that morning, especially 
strangers on foot.” 

“Not that we’ve heard of,” responded Mrs. Hilyer 
promptly. “All of us were at the funeral. And if the 
servants had noticed anything queer, I’m sure they would 
have reported it to me.” 

“Thanks,” said Hugh. “Would it be too much trouble 
for you to inquire of them, just the same?” 

“Not at all. D’you mind telling us what happened?” 

The whole company crowded closer. 



62 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 

4 ‘Oh, nothing much,” answered Hugh deliberately, “ex 
cept we had reason to suppose the house had been en 
tered.” 

“Great Scott!” protested Hilyer. “That’s a go 
We’ve never had anything like that before in the County 
But with so many men out of work, and the unrest am 
whatnot, I suppose it’s no more than to be expected.” 

4 4 Did you lose anything, Lord Chesby?” inquired Hilm 
Bey. 

“I think not.” 

The Countess Sandra Vassilievna permitted an artisth 
shudder to undulate her figure. 

“Bozhe moi, Maude!” she cried. “Do you bring us 
into your rural England to risk death from burglars? 1 
prefer the Bolshevists.” 

Several people laughed. 

“All the same, it’s no joke,” answered Mrs. Hilyer 
“Thanks for the warning, Lord Chesby. We’ll let the 
dogs loose around the house after this at night.” 

Teodoreschi, still standing in the doorway, rasped £ 
single sentence, and passed out. The others flocked aftei 
him like hounds over whom the huntsman cracks his whip 
Mrs. Hilyer and the Countess waved a last good-by, and 
Watkins closed the door on them. 

Nikka and I looked at one another, and burst out 
laughing. Hugh, with a muffled curse, threw up the near¬ 
est window. 

“Let’s have some fresh air,” he said. “That scoundrel 
Montey Hilyer makes.me feel dirty. He and his tips! 
And we must come over and play bridge! Yes, and 
roulette, too, I suppose, with a wired wheel. I say, yon 
two, do I look like such an utter ass?” 

“They were a queer crowd,” I admitted. “That 
countess wasn’t bad-looking, though.” 

“I noticed you stuck to her,” insinuated Hugh. 

“Nonsense, she singled me out. I think she was trying 
to pump me.” 


THE HILYER PARTY 


63 


“Well, Hilyer didn't ask me any questions, I’m bound 
to say,” returned Hugh. “He was too busy with his 
beastly gambling anecdotes, and crooked dope. What did 
you make out of them, Nikka?” 

Nikka lit a cigarette before he replied. 

“I think they are a party of polite thieves,” he an¬ 
swered at last. “At least, some of them. The Italian 
I made nothing of.” 

“He didn’t talk any,” said Hugh. 

“They said he couldn’t speak English,” I put in. 

“You didn’t notice, then, that he w T as listening to every¬ 
thing that was said,” observed Nikka. 

“No, but I saw him read the rhyme up there over the 
fireplace. He gave me the shakes.” 

“Who was the Bey person?” inquired Hugh. 

Nikka’s lip curled. 

“That fellaheen cur! I know the breed. They live by 
graft and worse. If we go to Paris I think I shall make 
inquiries about some of them. I know persons at the 
Prefecture of Police who ought to have their dossiers.” 

We fell silent, as Watkins, the company out of the way, 
brought in tea. 

“How did they get on the subject of that verse of Lady 
Jane’s?” demanded Hugh suddenly. 

“It was the countess and Mrs. Hilyer,” I explained. 
“They saw it, and insisted on reading some hidden mean¬ 
ing into it.” 

As I spoke I looked up again at the overmantel where 
the Gothic characters showed dimly in the light from the 
smoldering logs and the rays of the sunset. I conned over 
the four lines deliberately. “Ye Prior’s Vent.” The 
last three words seemed to jump out at me. “Some secret 
meaning. ... A key to something else, you know.” Mrs. 
Hilyer’s phrases reechoed in my brain. I studied the 
rhyme a second time. 

“Hugh,” I said suddenly, “d’you happen to have with 
you the copy of that other verse of Lady Jane’s?” 


64 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


He produced it from his pocketbook, without speaking. 
We had read over the copy of the Instructions a score of 
time since our arrival at Chesby, but none of us had re¬ 
curred to Lady Jane’s whimsical effort. 

I spread the copy before me : 

Putte downe ye Anciount riddel 
In Decente, Seemelie ordour. 

Rouse, 0 ye mystick Sybil, 

Vex Hymme who doth Endeavour, 

Nor treate Hys effortte tendour. 

And in the winking of an eyelid the cipher leaped out 
before me. I did not reason it out. It just came to me— 
when I saw the VE in the next to the last line, I think. 

“I’ve got it!” I shouted, and I sprang up and danced 
across the hearth, waving the paper in my hand. “I’ve 
got it!” 

Hugh and Nikka regarded me in astonishment. 

‘ ‘ Got what, you silly ass ? ’ ’ asked Hugh. 

“It—the secret! The key! The cipher! The treas 1 —” 

But even as I started to say that, I thought better of it. 

“No, that’s going too far,” I panted, breaking off in 
my mad dance. “I’ve got something, but how much it 
means is another matter.” 

Hugh pulled me down beside them. 

“Talk sense, Jack,” he ordered. “Show us your—” 

“Here!” I shoved the copy of Lady Jane’s doggerel in 
front of him and Nikka. “Now watch!” 

I took a pencil and drew it through all except the first 
letters of the first and last words in each line. So: 


P -u tto dovwvo yo — Aneio*» 4 r kklo l- 
In Daoouto, Soom el ifr o + h1oupi 
R » u eo; 0 — yo myctiok - Sy- b » l r - 
V « fr-Hymmo who - ^o fe h E »4c*wouiy 
Nw fr teeato - Byo offovto tea dour . 













THE HILYER PARTY 


65 


The result, of course, was: 

P 
I 
R 
V 
N 

“Prior’s Vent!” gasped Nikka. “He has found some¬ 
thing ! ’ ’ 

And his eyes, too, sought the verse carved on the over¬ 
mantel. 

“Up there, too! It can mean only one thing.” 

“That the secret to the location of the treasure is in 
the Prior’s Vent!” I added triumphantly. 

“Or can be reached through the Prior’s Vent,” amended 
Nikka. 

Hugh, who had been in a brown study, aroused himself, 
and peered at the mass of the fireplace. 

“I’m not trying to belittle Jack’s discovery,” he said 
slowly, “but you chaps must remember that we don’t 
know where or what the Prior’s Vent is.” 

“Except that you may take it for certain it is in this 
room,” replied Nikka. 

“And that perhaps the fireplace has something to do 
with it, ” I suggested. 

Hugh shook his head. 

“No, no, Jack, that won’t wash. You, yourself, have 
measured that chimney area, and we all agreed there 
wasn’t space inside it for a secret chamber. If I thought 
there was, I’d tear it down.” 

“Hold on,” counseled Nikka. “Easy does it. For the 
first time we’ve got something to go upon. Let’s chew 
it over for a while, and see what we can make of it.” 

We chewed it over until bedtime without reaching any 
decision. 


r 

o 

S 

E 

t 


CHAPTER YII 


THE FIGHT IN THE GUNROOM 

I T was a long time before I went to sleep. Lady 
Jane’s cipher and its inconclusive information kept 
buzzing through my head. But at last I dozed off and 
dreamed of fat monks who popped out of a round hole 
in a courtyard in endless succession until one of their 
number, stouter than the rest, became wedged in the open¬ 
ing. He babbled profanely in Latin, and I started to go 
to his aid—and waked up. 

The night was very dark, and there was not even a hint 
of starshine to light the room. A dog was barking on the 
Home Farm just outside the park enclosure, but not an¬ 
other sound broke the silence. I rolled over, and shut 
my eyes, and promptly sat up in bed. I thought I had 
heard another sound. What it was I could not say. It 
was very faint, a gentle burring rip. 

I swung out of bed, reached for a candle, thought better 
of it, and crossed to the door communicating with Hugh’s 
room. It was ajar, and as I poked my head in, I could 
hear his gentle breathing. Nikka’s room, beyond his, was 
quiet. Outside of us three, only Watkins slept in that 
part of the house. The servants’ quarters were in the 
rear over the kitchens. 

My first instinct was to laugh at myself, but I opened 
the door from my room into the hall and listened there. 
At first, I heard nothing. Then it seemed to me that I 
detected a creaking, as of subdued footfalls. I strained my 
faculties in tense concentration, but the creaking was not 
repeated, and I began to believe that my imagination was 
playing tricks with me. 


68 


THE FIGHT IN THE GUNROOM 


67 


To make sure, I crossed the hall in my hare feet, and 
listened at Watkins’s door. Watkins, I regret to say, 
snored quite audibly, and I was inclined to suspect that 
he had been responsible for arousing me. But I could 
not quell the uneasiness which possessed me. I started to 
call Hugh and Nikka, and stopped with my hand raised 
to knock on Nikka’s door. It would be a fool stunt to 
wake them for nothing but my own fancies. 

After a moment’s further hesitation, I crept down¬ 
stairs into the entrance hall, groping my way in the pitch 
darkness. Feeling more than ever like a fool, I looked into 
the dining room and music room. I had just stepped back 
into the hall when a chink of light shone out of the short 
passage that led from the hall into the Gunroom. It 
flickered away, and returned. 

Wishing now that I had taken the automatic that lay on 
the table beside my bed, I stole into the Gunroom pas¬ 
sage. I still thought I might have to deal with one of the 
servants. In fact, I didn’t think very much of anything, 
except the necessity of discovering the identity of the in¬ 
truder. 

The door of the Gunroom opened into the passage. 
It was ajar, but not sufficiently to permit me to see in¬ 
side. I drew it cautiously toward me. The chink of 
light was more pronounced. A brief mutter of voices, 
hoarse and restrained, reached my ears. As the crack 
widened, I adjusted my eye to the opening and peered 
in. 

The Gunroom was a pool of shadows, save only in front 
of the fireplace, where a single ray of light played upon a 
preposterous figure crouched on the mantle-shelf. The 
light came from an electric torch in the hand of a second 
figure outlined against the dying coals of the woodfire on 
the hearth. They mumbled back and forth to each other, 
and now I caught once more the faint noise like the pro¬ 
longed ripping of tough cloth which had attracted my 
attention upstairs. 


63 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


The light flashed on steel, and I realized that the figure 
on the mantle-shelf was working with a small saw on the 
panel of the over-mantle containing Lady Jane’s verse. 
As I watched, he suspended his efforts and barked im¬ 
patiently at his assistant. The ray of light quivered and 
shifted upward. For a fleeting section of a second it 
traversed the figure on the mantle-shelf and focussed mo¬ 
mentarily on his head and shoulders. 

I gasped. The figure on the mantle-shelf was Professor 
Teodoreschi, the Italian chemist w T ho had accompanied 
the Hilyer’s party. There was no mistaking the tremen¬ 
dous shoulders, the long ape-arms, the pallid face, with 
its high forehead and heavy jaw. He wore the same 
costume of shooting-coat and knickerbockers that he had 
had on in the afternoon. 

In my amazement my hand tightened involuntarily its 
grip on the door, which swung out past me with a loud 
groan. Another beam of light flashed from the shadows 
close by, focussed on me and snapped off. 

‘‘Amerikansk.y!” cried a man’s voice. 

I heard him leap through the litter of furniture, and 
dimly saw him fling his torch at me. It crashed against 
the door, and I snatched up a chair, stooped low and lashed 
at his legs. He tumbled in a heap. 

“Hugh! Nikka!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. 

I had my hands full on the instant. The man who had 
flung the torch at me was already scrambling to his feet. 
The gorilla-like Italian had jumped from the mantle- 
shelf with the alert energy of a big cat. He and the man 
who had been helping him were now dodging towards me. 

“Ne tirez pas!” hissed Teodoreschi in throaty accents 
that were vaguely familiar. c< Percez! Attendez, Serge, 
Vlada! Percez! Poignardez!” 

The Italian’s helper reached me first. I saw his knife 
in his hand, and struck out with my fist. Being a knife- 
fighter, it was what he least expected, and he went over. 
I ran behind the large center table, and as the Italian 


THE FIGHT IN THE GUNROOM 


69 


and the other man closed in, I reared it on end and top¬ 
pled it at them. They jumped apart, and I found op¬ 
portunity to heave another chair at the chap I had just 
knocked down. 

But I was in for a bad time. Teodoreschi and the man 
who had first rushed me were ugly customers. I evaded 
them, slipped behind the couch that stood in front of the 
fireplace and tried to make for the window. They headed 
me off, and I drove a right hook to the jaw of my original 
foe that sent him reeling. Then the Italian was on me 
like a human juggernaut. He swept aside my blows as 
though they were harmless, folded me in his great arms and 
tossed me from him. I spun across the hearth into the 
fireplace, and brought up on all-fours in the ashes. 

Every tooth in my head was jarred by the crash, but 
I had no time to think of pain. I heard the guttural snarl 
of the gorilla-man behind me, and looked up to see his 
knife descending in a stab that was aimed inside my 
collarbone. Desperate, I threw myself backward against 
his legs, and he fell on the couch. Yet he was up again 
in an instant, and chopping at me, with foam dripping 
from his lips. 

I had to run, and as I ran, I kicked the fire-irons in 
his way. They tripped him and his knife went hurtling 
across the room into a bookcase. But I could not escape. 
His companions herded me back towards him, and pres¬ 
ently I was battling to avoid his clutch. Once within his 
reach, I was helpless as a child. 

His arms wrapped me like cables; his wicked green eyes 
blazed at me with insane ferocity; his teeth gnashed at 
my throat. And his two friends hovered near, watching 
for an opportunity to finish me with their knives. 

Then I heard feet pattering in the hall, a cry of en¬ 
couragement. I summoned all my strength for one last 
struggle. 

“Shoot! Hugh! Nikka! Shoot!” I yelled. 

Teodoreschi lifted me from my feet, and turned me face 


70 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


upward in his arms. I honestly think he meant to gnaw 
through my throat. His pallid cheeks gleamed with 
sweat. His eyes were utterly inhuman. His mouth drib¬ 
bled saliva. But an automatic cracked in the doorway, 
and was followed by a choking cry. He hesitated, glaring 
down at me, and I could almost see the human intelligence 
returning to his face. There were two more shots, and he 
slammed me on the floor, with a barking screech of de¬ 
fiance. 

The next thing I remember was Hugh pouring raw 
Scotch whiskey down my throat—and how good it tasted. 

“Did you get him?” I stammered. 

“We got one fellow,” answered Hugh grimly. “Or 
I should say, Nikka did.” 

I staggered to my feet with Hugh’s arm around me. 
In the doorway I saw Watkins, a nightshirt flapping 
around his calves, forcing back a motley group of servants. 
Nikka had picked up the electric torch which had been 
flung at me, and was examining by its light the body of a 
man that lay between the couch and the fireplace. 

As Watkins closed the door, Nikka beckoned to him. 

“Did they see this?” he asked shortly, pointing to the 
body. 

“No, sir. None of them got inside, and it’s quite 
impossible to see be’ind the couch ’ere, sir.” 

“Good! Oh, Hugh!” Nikka turned to us. “Hello, 
Jack! Do you feel yourself again ? ’ ’ 

“I’m right as can be,” I insisted, which was the truth. 
“Nothing bothered me, except having the wind squeezed 
out of me by that gorilla.” 

“What gorilla?” 

“The Italian—Teodoreschi.” 

“Oh, was he in it?” 

Hugh and Nikka exchanged glances. 

“Well, take a look at this fellow,” suggested Nikka. 

He switched the torch on the body by the hearth. There 
was a red splotch over the heart. The right hand still 


THE FIGHT IN THE GUNROOM 


71 


clutched convulsively a long knife, with a slight curve near 
the keen point of the blade. The light settled on a dark, 
thin, hooknosed face. 

‘ ‘ Ever seen him before ? ’ ’ inquired Hugh. 

“No,” I admitted regretfully. 

“Oh, Watty!” called Hugh. 

“Yes, your ludship.” 

Watkins maintained all his usual dignity of demeanor, 
notwithstanding that he was in his nightshirt and bare 
feet, with a snuffed-out candle in one hand and an auto¬ 
matic in the other. 

“Ever seen this man before?” 

Watkins stooped, and almost instantly jerked erect. 

“ It’s ’im, your ludship! It’s the man that told us ’e 
came from you. On the Aquitania, sir! A just and 
’Eavenly punishment, indeed, your ludship!” 

“I’ll take a little credit for it, if you don’t mind,” 
said Nikka, grinning. 

“Jack, did you recognize the third man?” 

I shook my head. 

“The Italian was the only one whose face I saw.” 

“Well, I had a glimpse of Number Three as he escaladed 
through the window after Teodoreschi—I’ll take your word 
for the Italian! He—Number Three, I mean—looked very 
much like the Russian, the brother of that Countess you 
were so smitten with.” 

“I wasn’t smitten with her,” I denied indignantly. 
“Here, Hugh, don’t drink all that whiskey.” 

“I like your nerve,” he retorted. “Didn’t I pour a 
quarter of the bottle down your throat ? ’ ’ 

“Be that as it may,” I went on when he had surrendered 
it, “I shouldn’t be surprised if Number Three was the 
Count. Now I think of it, the Italian called ‘ Serge! ’ when 
they first jumped me.” 

“That would be right, then,” agreed Nikka. “Did he 
call this carrion anything?” 

He touched the dead man with his foot. 



72 'THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“He called ‘Vlada!’ at the same time.” 

“That sounds reasonable, too,” said Nikka, deep in 
thought. 

“Why?” 

‘The man is a—what you would call a countryman of 
mine. He is a Gypsy. I tell you, my friends—” 

tie broke off, and stared down at the body on the floor. 

“What?” asked Hugh. 

“Why, this. Our task grows as we draw nearer to 
it. I have said before that we face a gang of interna¬ 
tional thieves. But see how their importance swells. 
Hugh, this man Hilyer—when all is said and done, an 
English country gentleman, living to outward seeming 
within the law—is one of them. They have a pair of shady 
Russian nobles, probably with ex-spy records. We have 
seen a Levantine financier with them. We know they have 
powerful connections in America. We know they have 
access to the criminal organization of the Gypsies. We 
have seen an Italian scientist—” 

“He’s no more Italian than you are,” I interrupted. 
“He may be a scientist, but he’s French.” 

“Who is he, then?” asked Nikka placidly. 

“He is that same Toutou Hugh’s uncle spoke of.” 

Hugh leaped up. 

“How do you know that, Jack?” 

“I just know, that’s all. Yesterday afternoon I saw 
him, although I did not recognize him, as he normally is. 
He’s fearsome enough in that mood, God knows! Well, 
a few minutes ago I saw him blood-crazed. He wanted 
to bite my throat out like a tiger. Oh, he’s Toutou, all 
right. ’ ’ 

Hugh’s face grew bitter-hard. 

“In that case,” he said, “I am going to drive over to 
Little Depping, and do a bit of killing on my own.” 

Watkins, without a word, deposited his snuffed candle on 
the mantel-shelf next an open kit of burglar’s tools, and 
stepped up beside his master. 


THE FIGHT IN THE GUNROOM 


73 


“You can’t do that sort of thing, Hugh,” I urged. 

“Why not? He’s a murderer, isn’t he? He killed my 
uncle—butchered the poor old chap ! D ’you suppose Hil- 
yer would dare to complain to the police?” 

“What you say is right enough, Hugh,” said Nikka 
quietly, “but you forget that Hilyer’s gang are hardly 
the kind to give up without a fight, especially when the man 
you want is their leader. Also, I fancy you under-rate 
your enemies’ intelligence, if you suppose Toutou or Teo- 
doreschi or whatever his name is will return to Little 
Depping.” 

‘ ‘ They prepared an alibi for him when they were here, ’ ’ 
I cried. “Don’t you remember? When they were leav¬ 
ing, Mrs. Hilyer said that they had to put him on the 
London train before they drove home.” 

“And you can depend upon it that he took the train,” 
added Nikka. “He probably dropped off at another sta¬ 
tion, and they met him with a car.” 

Hugh sat down gloomily. 

‘ ‘ I suppose you are right, ’ ’ he admitted. 11 But I should 
like to shoot the swine.” 

“You are very likely to have the opportunity,” Nikka 
comforted him. “That is, supposing you shoot first. 
Now, see here, you chaps, what are we going to do with 
this fellow I shot? We can’t have any publicity, and 
while you may persuade servants not to talk about an 
ordinary burglary, you can’t hush them up if it includes a 
killing.” 

“What’s your suggestion?” asked Hugh. 

‘ ‘ Remove him secretly, and tell the servants that nothing 
is missing and we don’t want the affair talked about.” 

“The idea is good,” assented Hugh. “I’m not anx¬ 
ious to have any more sensational interest attached to me, 
But what can you do with him? The body is in this 
room. It’s got to be taken out. You can’t bury a body 
without digging a grave. That means leaving a trace. 
Suppose some one should see us or suppose some one should 


74 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


find the grave and investigate. Mind you, old top, what¬ 
ever our motives, we are violating the law if we don’t re¬ 
port the man’s death.” 

“There may be a way out of your difficulty,” I re¬ 
marked. 

“What is it?” 

“Use the Prior’s Vent.” 

They both looked at me as if I had gone mad. Even 
Watkins regarded me with stern disapproval. 

“What are you talking about?” demanded Nikka. 

“This is serious,” reproved Hugh. “Just because you 
find a silly cipher—” 

“I am serious,” I insisted. “This has been an event¬ 
ful evening. Among other things, I think I have found 
the Prior’s Vent.” 

Hugh shook his head sadly. 

“There’s been too much talk of secrets,” he said. 
“Watty, go and ring up Dr. North. He must have hurt 
his head in that mix-up.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 

TAY where you are, Watkins,” I commanded. 

“Let me have that torch, Nikka.” 

I turned it on the over-mantel. An efficient 
kit of burglar’s tools reposed on the mantel-shelf under 
the carven group of dancing monks, ale-horns and tankards 
waving aloft. The figure in the middle of the group had 
a comically protruding belly that seemed to waggle as the 
light played on it. But what interested me was the small 
flexible saw that was still fixed in the base of the panel 
above the dancing monks. 

“Do you see what our friends were up to?” I asked. 
“That fellow Toutou has a keen mind. He is somebody 
to be reckoned with. He saw what none of us saw, even 
after we had worked out the cipher.” 

“What did he see?” asked Nikka. 

For answer I switched the light on to Lady Jane’s 
verse: 

Wibennz tftatte pe pappist C&urcftmattne 
(KHouDDe sebe pps foul’s contente 
toobeneD up pe axHpssfringe ©tone 
3nD troSDe pe prior’0 Uent. 

“He saw that,” I answered. “And he jumped to con¬ 
clusions from it. He knew, as we knew, that there is some¬ 
thing concealed in this house, probably in this room. 
And he thought that that verse would not have been 
placed just there unless there was a reason for it.” 

“By Jove, I believe he was right!” exclaimed Hugh. 

75 


76 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Nikka propped a chair against the mantle-piece, and 
climbed on to the shelf. The panel had been sawed through 
on both sides and part of the bottom. 

“Go ahead,” said Hugh. “It’s ruined anyway. But 
I swear I don’t see how there can be an opening in back 
there that wouldn’t sound hollow when you rap over 
it.” 

While I held the light on the panel Nikka sawed away, 
and in fifteen minutes he had it detached from its beveled 
frame. 

“Come up here, Hugh, and help me with it,” he said, 
as he withdrew the saw, and Hugh climbed to his side. 

They found a thin chisel in the burglar’s kit, and with 
this Hugh gently pried the panel loose. 

“It has a stone backing,” cried Nikka disappointedly, 
as it came away. 

In fact, we all experienced a profound feeling of dis¬ 
illusionment when Watkins received the panel in his arms, 
and the empty area of stonework was revealed, about four 
feet long and three feet high. 

“Too bad,” said Hugh, jumping down. “Especially as 
we could have gotten a body through an opening that 
size. 

There came a yell of triumph from Nikka, and Watkins, 
whose eyes had been straining at the opening, shouted: 

‘ ‘ There is something there, your ludship ! ’ 7 

Nikka was digging furiously with the chisel at what 
looked to be a dark stone in the very center of the 
empty area. 

“It’s an inner wood panel,” he grunted over his shoul¬ 
der. “I can feel something behind it.” 

There was a splintering noise, and the “stone” fell 
apart. Behind it was a shallow recess, perhaps nine 
inches square, completely filled by a rusty iron box. 
Nikka levered the box out, and handed it to Hugh. 

“Your ancestress was a clever old person,” he com¬ 
mented, dropping beside us on the couch. “Fancy her 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 


77 


figuring that the inner panel would prevent the recess 
from sounding hollow when it was rapped.” 

The box was about three inches deep. It was unlocked, 
and Hugh lifted the cover without difficulty. Inside 
were two papers, very brittle and yellow from the heat 
of the chimney. The first was a torn fragment from a 
household account book: 


“Septr. ye 2nde, 1592. 

“Paid Conrad of Nurmburgge ye Germanne masonne: 
item, for sealinge ye Olde Cryptte belowe ye Priors 
Plouse: item, for ye engine for ye Priors Vent: 
item, for ye pannellinge in ye Gunneroom £17 s9 d4 

item, two boxes of Flanders iron s7 

“Accompte £17 sl6 d4” 

And below this was written: 

“And I sent Hyme forth of ye Vilage thatte Hee might not 
have Chaunce to talk howbeeit Hee ys clousemouthed and Hath 
littel Englysh.” 

It was impossible not to laugh at the invincible de¬ 
termination of Lady Jane. 

“What did she do with the second box?” I suggested. 

“Probably used it in another mystery,” chuckled 
Nikka. “What’s the other paper, Hugh?” 

“It’s the real thing! Great Jupiter, see what Toutou 
missed!” 

And he spread the second paper on his knee. It was 
short and to the point: 

“To Hymne thatte hath Witte to rede Mye riddel. Presse 
atte ye One time ye Sfinxes lieadde and ye Monkes bellie. So 
wil ye Flaggin drop in ye Dexter side of ye Harth. Thatte 
whych you Seke you shal Discovour in yts proper Place. 

“Jane Chesby.” 

I flashed the electric torch on the mantle-piece. “Ye 



78 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Sfinxes headde” was in the very center of the row of 
Turks’ heads and veiled women that was sculptured along 
the edge of the stone mantle-shelf. “Ye Monkes bellie” 
was the bit of carving that protruded from the center of 
the bibulous group that had upheld the panel bearing 
Lady Jane’s verse. 

“I’ve pressed both of those more than once,” I pro¬ 
tested. 

“But not both at once,” answered Nikka. 

He bounded up, and drove his two hands, palm out, 
against the projections. There was a muffled thud in the 
fireplace. I sank on my knees, and trained the electric 
torch inside. On the “dexter,” or right-hand side, in 
the rear, yawned a hole some two feet square. 

I crawled through the ashes, and thrust the torch over 
the rim. There was a sharp drop of three or four feet, 
and then the beginning of a flight of stairs, heavily car¬ 
peted with dust. A damp, earthy odor smote my nostrils. 
The others crawled in beside me. Even Watkins pulled 
his nightshirt around him and stuck his head in as far 
as he could get. 

“Ever seen that before, Watty?” asked Hugh, backing 
out. 

“Never, your ludship.” 

The valet’s face was a study. 

“ ’Is late ludship, Mister Hugh, was. frequently in the 
’abit of being alone, as I daresay you know. But ’ow in 
the world could ’e have found it, your ludship, if he didn’t 
find out first about that?” 

Watkins nodded toward the gaping hole in the over- 
mantle. 

“I’m damned if I know,” admitted Hugh. “Maybe 
we’ll find out. By the way, how do you suppose you close 
the Vent?” 

Nikka fingered the two projections, and the moment he 
applied pressure the flagstone slapped up into place. 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 


79 


“There’s some counterweight arrangement/’ he said. 
“The fellow who designed this was a master-mechanic.” 

“Evidently,” agreed Hugh. “Well, you chaps, we are 
another mile-stone farther on the road, but the first thing 
we have to do is to get the corpus delicti safely under¬ 
ground.” 

“Right,” assented Nikka. “But we need clothes and 
food. You can’t tell what we may run into.” 

For the first time I looked at myself, and burst out 
laughing at the spectacle I presented. My pajamas were 
torn to shreds, and I was smutted from head to foot with 
soot and ashes. Hugh and Nikka were little better. Wat¬ 
kins was as immaculate as a man in his night-shirt may 
be. 

“Very well,” said Hugh. “Then Jack had best go up¬ 
stairs and wash, while Watkins gets dressed and fetches 
our clothes. In the meantime, Nikka and I can be dis¬ 
posing of our friend here.” 

We adopted this plan, and Watkins also volunteered to 
tell cook to start breakfast. The curtains had been close 
drawn over all the Gunroom windows, and I was amazed 
to perceive on leaving it that the sun was rising. 

When I came downstairs twenty minutes later, Hawkins 
the butler, carrying a large tray, was knocking on the 
Gunroom door. 

“I’ll take it,” I told him. “You go back to the kitchen 
like a good fellow, and keep the maids quiet.” 

I knocked for several minutes without result, and finally 
set the tray down, and banged the door with both fists. 

“All right! All right!” called a strangely blanketed 
voice. “Who is it?” 

“Jack!” 

Feet scuffled inside, and the door was jerked open by 
Hugh, rather dusty and cobwebby. 

“We were out under the Park,” he explained. “We 
took that Gypsy down safely, and I came back ahead of 


80 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


the others on the chance you might be trying to get in. 
There's a regular passage, Jack. It seems to go on and 
on. We didn’t have time to follow it very far.” 

He set the table, which I had overturned, on its legs, 
and I brought in the tray. Then Nikka and Watkins 
emerged from the fireplace, blinking owlishly, and w 7 e 
three drew chairs up to the table, and Watkins served 
breakfast as deftly as though we had not departed a 
hair’s-breadth from the ordinary routine of life. 

“Have you had breakfast yet, Watty?” asked Hugh. 

“No, your ludship.” 

“Sit down, then, and eat.” 

Watkins looked like a man instructed to undress in 
Piccadilly. 

“Beg pardon, your ludship—” 

“Sit down, man.” 

“But, your ludship—” 

Hugh pointed to a chair. 

“Damn it, Watty,” he said severely, “bring that chair 
up, pour yourself some coffee and eat.” 

Watkins complied with an air of outraged decorum. 

There was a knock on the door. 

‘ ‘ Who’s that ? ’ ’ said Hugh. 

“It should be ’Awkins with the quick-lime, your lud¬ 
ship,” answered Watkins, hastily pushing back his chair. 
“ ’E had to ’ave it brought from the stables.” 

“Take it from him, Watty—and then come back here 
and finish your breakfast.” 

“Why quick-lime?” I asked, as Watkins received a 
bulky, whitish-powdered sack through the half-opened 
door. 

“We can’t very well dig a grave in stone,” was Nikka’s 
grim comment. 

Watkins dropped the sack on the hearth, and returned 
to his breakfast. He wanted very much to quit with one 
cup of coffee, but Hugh ordered him back and insisted that 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 


81 


a man who had work to do required not less than four 
slices of toast and three eggs. 

“Bloated I’ll be, your ludship,” protested the valet. 
“Oh, if you will ’ave it!” 

“I will,” said Hugh. “You are going to be on guard 
here, Watty, while we are gone. Have you your auto¬ 
matic? Right 0! Don’t let anybody in.” 

He took the electric torch, and dropped the sack of 
lime down the hole in the fireplace. We climbed after it, 
one by one. The first stairs were extremely steep and 
the roof was so close that we had to stoop; but after we 
had descended perhaps fifteen feet, they turned to the 
right and the roof lifted to a little more than six feet. 

“This is where the passage strikes off from the house,” 
remarked Hugh. 

The stairs continued to descend for another fifteen or 
twenty feet, and then straightened out. At the foot of 
the last step lay the body of the Gypsy. Hugh was carry¬ 
ing the lime-sack, so Nikka and I picked up the dead man, 
following Hugh, who lighted the way with the torch. 

The passage was beautifully built, with an even floor, 
and wide enough for one man to walk comfortably. De¬ 
spite a damp odor, it was not muddy, and there must have 
been some means of ventilation, for the air was reason¬ 
ably fresh. According to a compass on Nikka’s watch- 
chain, it trended across the Park towards the ruins of 
the Priory. 

The Gypsy’s body w r as a clumsy load to manage in so 
confined a space, and we halted every two or three hundred 
feet to rest. We estimated that we had walked a kil¬ 
ometer when we noticed a gradual upward slope in the 
flooring. The passage turned a corner, and the light of 
Hugh’s torch was reflected on the rusty ironwork of what 
once had been a massive door. 

Of the wood only a pile of dust remained, cluttered about 
the broken lock; but the great hinges still stretched across 


82 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


the path, upholding a ghostly barrier of bolted darkness. 
We deposited the dead Gypsy on the floor, and helped 
Hugh to bend back the creaking iron frame. Beyond 
loomed a vast emptiness, a spreading, low-roofed chamber, 
studded with squat Norman pillars that marched in dim 
columns into unseen depths. 

The torch scarcely could penetrate the heaped-up shad¬ 
ows, but as our eyes became accustomed to the room’s 
proportions we realized that we stood on the threshold of 
a mausoleum similar to the one in which we had seen 
Lord Chesby laid to rest. Hugh stepped across the stone 
sill of the doorway, and swung the light back and forth 
between the pillars. Suddenly it glinted on metal. 

We all pressed closer, staring at the picture that took 
shape under the white glare. On a stone shelf lay a skele¬ 
ton in armor. The peaked helmet had rolled aside from 
the naked skull, but the chainmail of the hauberk still 
shrouded trunk and limbs. Next to it lay a smaller skele¬ 
ton, clad in threads of rich vestments. There was a 
twinkle of tarnished gold cloth, a fragment of fur. A 
bygone Lord of Chesby and his lady! 

“We are intruders in this place,” I exclaimed. “It 
doesn’t seem right, Hugh.” 

My voice rolled thunderously from roof to floor and 
wall to wall and back again, and the pillars split the 
echoes into parodies of words. 

‘‘ Intruder—derr-rr-r—whirr-rrr-rr-r! Place—pla-aay- 

ayyay-ay!” 

“One feels indecent in being here,” agreed Nikka. 

Hugh frowned down upon the two skeletons. 

“They wouldn’t mind,” he said. “We have a reason 
for coming.” 

And while the echoes had their will with his declaration, 
he led us slowly around the circuit of the chamber. 

Niche followed niche. On shelf after shelf lay the 
bones of men and women whose bodies had rotted ages ago. 
On one moldered the skeleton of a man in clerical rai- 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 


83 


ment, with what had been a miter on his skull, some cadet 
of the house who had entered the Church. 

Halfway around we came to another shelf that held 
two skeletons. The inner, obviously a woman’s, thrust 
its poor bones through the tattered fabric that robed it. 
The man wore an immense pot-helmet of the early type, 
with eye-holes and nasals drilled in the fashion of a cross. 
His chainmail was very finely-woven, and included mail 
shoes that had collapsed pathetically on crumbled bones. 
His gauntleted hands were clasped on the hilt of a long, 
two-edged sword, which lay upon his chest with the point 
between his feet. His left arm supported a kite-shaped 
shield that revealed traces of color beneath the over-lying 
dust. 

On his chest, just above the clasped hands, was an iron 
box identical with the one which we had found behind the 
panel of the over-mantle, the second of the 4 ‘two boxes of 
Flanders iron” which Conrad had furnished to Lady Jane. 

Hugh switched his torch on the base of the shelf. In 
rough, angular Gothic characters we spelt the inscription: 

Hie Jacet 

Hugh Dominus Chesbiensis 
et 

i 

Edith Domina Chesbiensis 

“The first Hugh!” exclaimed Hugh with a note of awe 
in his voice. 

And indeed, it must have been a moving experience to 
view the flimsy relics of those two from whose loins he, 
himself, had sprung through the resistless life impulse 
prevailing over time and death down the procession of 
the centuries. 

He hesitated a moment, and then reached out reverently 
and removed the iron box from the mailed breast. Handing 
the torch to me, he raised the dingy cover. Inside was 
a chest of ebony, bound with silver, sound and whole. It 


84 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


was unlocked. As Hugh lifted the lid, a sheet of paper 
fluttered out and Nikka caught it. Across the top was 
engraved “Castle Chesby,” and it was covered with fine, 
cramped writing. 

“It’s Uncle James’s record,” said Hugh. “After the 
exultation of plumbing the mystery to be murdered like 
a dog! Poor old chap ! ’ ’ 

The note or record was whimsically brief and undated: 

“Last Thursday evening, in studying Lady Jane’s doggerel 
on the back of the Instructions, I suddenly perceived the cipher. 
It occurred to me that the verse on the over-mantel in the Gun¬ 
room must have some connection with this, and after several 
days’ examination, I fell upon the secret. I say fell, advisedly. 
In my interest in the task, I had shut myself up, and refused 
luncheon, tea and dinner, and finally, late in the evening, 1 
sank against the mantle-shelf, weak and half-fainting. My 
hands, groping for support, struck the sphinx’s head and the 
monk’s stomach. I felt them give, heard the flagstone fall. 
After that hunger was forgotten. I descended the chimney 
stairs and found my way here, the first Chesby to traverse the 
Prior’s Vent since that singular old ancestress of mine so ef¬ 
fectually concealed it, and with it, the clue to the treasure. I 
do not see now how I can fail to find the treasure, but I shall 
leave the missing half of the Instructions, together with this 
note, in Lady Jane’s chest, so that, if I should fail, the in¬ 
formation may be available for Hugh. 

“James Chesby.” 

> 

“This was what he tried to tell—at the last,” said 
Hugh. 

His voice choked. 

“Poor old chap!” 

‘ ‘ There is something peculiar about his finding the secret 
in one way and our finding it in another so shortly after¬ 
ward,” I said. 

“The soothsayers of my people would call it a sign, 
a premonition,” replied Nikka, with a melancholy smile. 

‘ ‘ Of what ? ’ ’ 


THE PRIOR’S VENT 


85 


“Of the removal of whatever curse or inhibition has 
prevented the discovery of the treasure up to this time.” 

“Well, two men have died already since this last search 
was begun,” answered Hugh, fumbling in the chest. 
“And who knows how many others have been killed on 
its account?” 

He drew out a bundle wrapped in decaying velvet cloth. 
Within was a wrapping of silk, and under all a folded blank 
sheet of parchment enveloping two other documents. One 
was a parchment, tattered and worn, which had evidently 
been much handled. It was jaggedly cut at the top as 
though by a dull knife or some other instrument. Its 
surface was crowded with the same intricate Black Letter 
script in mediaeval Latin as comprised the Instructions in 
the Charter Chest. The writing was badly faded, and a 
number of words in the lower right-hand corner had been 
smudged by dampness at some remote time. 

The second document was a pencilled translation of the 
first in James Chesby’s handwriting: 

“The Great Palace—or as some call it, the Palace of the 
Bucoleon—is over against the Hippodrome and the Church of St. 
Sophia. In the Inner Court, which fronts upon the Bosphorus, 
there is a door under the sign of the Bull. Beyond the door 
is a hall. At the end of the hall there is a stair. At the foot 
of the stair there is a gate. Pass through the gate into the 
atrium which is off the Garden of the Cedars. In the Garden 
is the Fountain of the Lion. From the center of the Fountain 
take four paces west toward the wall of the atrium. Then walk 
three paces north. Underfoot is a red stone an ell square. 
Raise the . 


“ . . . farewell, my son, and forget not the monks of Crow- 
den Priory and the plight of Jerusalem. 

“Thine in the love of Christ and the Sainted Cuthbert, 

“Hugh.” 


Beneath this Lord Chesby had scrawled: 




86 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“The missing portion is not essential. Below the stone is the 
treasure. That seems certain.” 

We looked at one another, hardly able to believe our 
senses. The thing had appeared so difficult, so unattain¬ 
able. And now it was almost within our grasp—or so we 
reasoned in the first flush of confident anticipation. 

“It’s a question, of course, whether any portion of the 
Palace of the Bucoleon remains,’’ Nikka pointed out. 

“But Uncle James seemed to have no doubt of that,” 
answered Hugh. “Do you remember, Jack?” 

A wild shout bellowed from the mouth of the passage, 
roared and clanged like a trumpet-blast and was shattered 
by the echoes. 

“Your lud’—Mis’ Jack! Mis’ Nikka!” 


CHAPTER IX 


HIDE AND SEEK 


T UGH slipped the penciled translation in his 
8-—I pocket, swiftly rewrapped the Black Letter origi- 
B I nal and stowed it in the ebony chest, and re¬ 
fastened the iron box, which he returned to its former 
place on the mailed breast of his dead ancestor. 

“That’s Watkins,” he said. “Something has hap¬ 
pened up above. Come on, you chaps.” 

In the doorway he paused by the body of Toutou’s gang¬ 
ster. 

“What about this?” he demanded. “I won’t have him 
left in there—with those.” 

He gestured toward the silent forms that filled the 
sepulcher. 

“No need to,” returned Nikka curtly, emptying the 
lime-sack as he spoke. “Leave him here.” 

We trotted on, and when we passed the first turn in 
the passage, just beyond the wreck of the ancient door, 
we saw a light that bobbed up and down in the near dis¬ 
tance. 

“Your ludship!” wailed Watkins’s voice through the 
booming echoes. 

“Steady on, Watty,” Hugh called back. “I’m here. 

“Thank God! Oh, your ludship, I’m that—” 

Watkins panted up to us quite out of breath. He car¬ 
ried a dwindling candle in one hand, and his usually tidy 
garments were coated with dust. 

‘ ‘ Must—apologize—ludship—appearance—fell—stairs, ’ ’ 
he began. 

“Easy, easy,” said Hugh comfortingly, and fell to 

87 


> > 




88 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


brushing him off. “If it’s bad news, why, it’s bad news, 
Watty. If it’s good news, it can wait.” 

“It was a lady, your ludship!” 

We all laughed. 

“A lady!” repeated Hugh. “Bless my soul, Watty, 
are you gettin’ dissolute in your old age?” 

“She ’ad nothing to do with me, your ludship,” re¬ 
monstrated the valet indignantly. “Leastwise, I should 
say, she ’ad no more to do with me than make a mock of 
me and the pistol you gave me.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Took it away from me, she did, your ludship.” Wat¬ 
kins’s voice quivered with wrath. “And tripped me on 
me back. Yes, and laughed at me!” 

“A lady, you said?” demanded Hugh incredulously. 

Watkins nodded his head. 

“And hextremely pretty, too, if I may say so, your 
ludship.” 

Hugh looked helplessly at Nikka and me. 

“I say, this is a yarn!” he exclaimed. “Watty, for 
God’s sake, get a grip on yourself. Begin at the begin¬ 
ning, and tell everything.” 

He grinned. 

“Conceal nothin’, you old reprobate, especially, if there 
were any amorous episodes with this lady.” 

“Your ludship! Mister Hugh, sir!” Watkins’s ex¬ 
pression was a study in injured innocence. “You will 
’ave your bit of fun, I suppose. As for me, sir, if I was 
for making love to some female I’d take one that was 
not so free with her strength.” 

“Are you sure it was a woman?” interrupted Nikka. 

“Judge for yourself, sir, Mister Nikka. After you gen¬ 
tlemen left me, I tidied up the room, and quite a time 
had passed, I should judge, when I heard a click, and 
one of the windows opened in the south oriel.” 

“That’s the one Toutou and his man escaped through,” 
I broke in. “They probably fixed the lock.” 


HIDE AND SEEK 


89 


“Very likely, sir. I turned when I ’eard the click, 
and the lady stuck ’er leg over the sill.” 

“Stuck her—” Hugh gasped. 

“Quite so, your ludship. She ’ad on riding-breeches. 
A very pretty lady she was, your ludship,” added Wat¬ 
kins contemplatively. 

“So you’ve said before,” commented Hugh. “And 
what next?” 

“I said: ‘Who are you, ma’am?’ And she laughed, 
and said: ‘Oh, it’s only me, Watkins.’ And I said: 
‘Well, ma’am, I’m sure I don’t know ’ow you come to 
’ave my name, but I really can’t permit you to come in 
’ere. Please get down, and go around to the front door.’ 

“With that she ’opped over the window-sill, and stood 
there, looking about ’er. ‘Come on, now, if you please, 
ma’am,’ I said again. And I’m sure, your ludship, I was 
considerate of ’er all the way through.” 

“I’ll bet a pony you were,” said Hugh sympathetically. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, your ludship. She looked 
around, as I said, and she walked over to the fireplace as 
cool as a cucumber. ‘I see they did find it, after all,’ she 
says, and she stooped and peeked in at the ’ole where the 
stone ’ad dropped. At that I knew she could be no friend, 
so I poked the pistol at ’er, and said: ‘I don’t want to 
’arm you, ma’am, but you’ll ’ave to come outside with me.’ 

“ ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you wouldn’t ’urt me, Watkins. 
You’re a nice, kind, old valet, aren’t you?’ ” 

Watkins’s voice throbbed with renewed indignation, and 
we all three, the gravity of the situation forgotten, col¬ 
lapsed on the dusty floor. 

“Go on, go on,” gasped Hugh. 

“ ’Ow can I, your ludship, if you’re laughing all the 
time?” protested Watkins. “Oh, well, you will ’ave 
your fun!” 

“So did she,” I chuckled. 

“She did, sir,” agreed Watkins with feeling. “She 
came right up against the pistol, and put out ’er ’and and 


90 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


patted my cheek like, and the first thing I knew, gentle¬ 
men, she ’ad tripped me and grabbed the pistol from my 
’and, and there was I, lying on the floor, and she with ’er 
legs straddled over me, pointing the pistol at me, and 
laughing like sin. 

“ ‘Get up,’ she says. And she went and sat sidewise 
on the table, with the pistol resting on ’er knee. ’ ’ 

“What was she like, Watty?” 

“She ’ad black hair, sir, and was dark in the face. 
She wasn’t big, but she was—well, shapely, you might 
say. And she ’ad a way of laughing with ’er eyes. She 
asked me where you were, and what you had found, and 
I stood in front of her, and just kept my mouth shut. 
‘I might shoot you if you won’t talk,’ she says. ‘And if 
you do, there’ll be those that will hear it, and you’ll be 
seen before you get away,’ I told ’er. ‘True,’ says she, 
‘and I couldn’t bring myself to do it, anyway. You’re too 
sweet. You can tell your master, though, that we’re not 
sorry he’s found what he was looking for. If we couldn’t 
find it, the next best thing was for him to find it. What¬ 
ever he does, he will play into our hands.’ 

“Then she walked over to the window, and dropped 
the pistol on a chair. ‘ ’Ere,’ she says. ‘You might ’ave 
me taken up for breaking and entering if I went off with 
this. ’ And she ’opped over the sill on to the lawn. When 
I got there she was in ’er saddle and riding away. I 
tried to telephone to the Lodge to ’ave ’er stopped, but 
the wires were cut. They must ’ave done it in the night, 
your ludship. ’Awkins was unable to get through to any 
of the village tradespeople this morning.” 

“Was that all?” asked Hugh. 

“Yes, your ludship. I called ’Awkins, and told ’im to 
stand in the front door, and send away anybody who 
came. Then I climbed down into the ’ole, thinking you 
would wish to know what ’ad ’appened immediately, your 
ludship.” 


HIDE AND SEEK 


91 


44 You did quite right, Watty. I don’t blame you for 
what happened. The lady must have been a Tartar.” 

Hugh turned to us. 

“It seems to me the lesson for us in this last experience 
is that we have got to move rapidly if we are going to 
shake off Toutou’s gang,” he said. “They are fully as 
formidable as Nikka warned us they would be. We ought 
to start for Constantinople this afternoon.” 

44 There’s no question of that,” assented Nikka. “But 
what are you going to do with the key to the treasure? 
You have it in your pocket now, but it is a long journey 
to Constantinople. Suppose they steal it en route ? They 
may have plenty of opportunities, you know. Personally, 
I am not sanguine of shaking them off. Then, too, you 
must remember that Constantinople is the human sink of 
Europe, Asia and Africa, more so to-day even than be¬ 
fore the War. It swarms with adventurers and dangerous 
characters. The refuse of half-a-dozen disbanded armies 
make their headquarters there. It will be a simple matter 
for a gang like Toutou’s to waylay you or search your 
baggage.” 

Hugh flushed. 

“I had thought of that,” he said. “Er—the fact is— 
Jack has a cousin—a girl we both know—” 

44 You mean you do,” I interrupted sarcastically. “I’m 
only her cousin. Have you heard from Betty ? ’ ’ 

44 Yes, damn you! She and her father are at the Pera 
Palace—he’s an archceologist-bibliophile Johnny, Nikka, 
and an awfully good sort.” 

44 And the girl?” inquired Nikka, with his quiet grin. 

44 Oh, you’ll meet her, too. She’s very different from 
what you’d expect in a cousin of Jack. Anyhow, she 
knows about this treasure business, and she read of Uncle 
James’s murder, and she’s most fearfully keen to be in 
the game with us. My suggestion is that I mail Uncle 
James’s translation of the key to her in Constantinople. 


92 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Nobody knows that she knows me or has any connec¬ 
tion with any of us. She left New York before Uncle 
James arrived. So it would be perfectly safe in her 
hands. ’ ’ 

‘‘And in the meantime, we’d better commit it to mem¬ 
ory,” I said. 

The others agreed to this, and we read over the brief 
transcript of the missing half of the Instructions until 
we had the salient directions fixed in our minds. Then 
we retraced our steps through the passage, climbed out 
of the Prior’s Vent and sealed it again; and while Hugh 
and Nikka motored down to the village post office with the 
letter for Betty, Watkins and I saw to the necessary pack¬ 
ing in preparation for the journey. 

We had bags ready for all four of us by lunchtime, 
and arranged with Hawkins to send trunks after us to the 
Pera Palace in bond. When Hugh and Nikka returned 
from the village, all that was necessary was to eat the meal, 
issue final directions to the servants for the repairing of 
the panel of the over-mantle—the removal of which we 
represented to have been the work of the burglars—and 
fill up the tank of the car. 

With an eye to a possible emergency, we had arranged 
in advance for a considerable supply of gold and nego¬ 
tiable travelers’ notes, and our passports, thanks to Hugh’s 
influence, had been vised for all countries in southern and 
eastern Europe. 

“There’s only one thing we lack,” remarked Hugh, 
as we drove out through the park gates. “I want an 
electric torch for each of us. The one we captured came 
in very handy this morning.” 

So we stopped at the shop of the local electrician in 
the village, and Hugh went in to make the purchase. He 
was just resuming his seat in the car when another machine 
drew up alongside, and Montey Hilyer waved a greeting. 

“Thought you were going to stay in the County a while, 
Hugh,” he hailed. 



HIDE AND SEEK 


93 


Hugh stared at him with the concentrated iciness which 
the English of his class attain to perfection. 

“Are you touring?” continued Hilyer. “Or going 
abroad? Seems to me I heard something this morning 
about your taking a trip to Constantinople. A favorite 
hang-out of your uncle’s, I believe. Well, if you’re fol¬ 
lowing the Dover road, you mustn’t mind if I trail you. 
I have no objection to a knight errant’s dust.” 

Without a word, Hugh slipped in his gears and zoomed 
off on first, scattering dogs and pedestrians right and left. 

“Damn the scoundrel!” he ripped between clinched 
teeth. ‘ ‘ How I wish I could show him up! Who was with 
him?” 

Nikka and I both shook our heads. 

“There were three people in the tonneau,” answered 
Nikka, “but the cover was up, and they were buried in 
wraps. Did you notice your pretty lady, Watty?” 

“No, sir. I couldn’t say.” 

All the way to Dover Hilyer’s green car tracked our 
wheel marks two or three hundred yards behind. Once, 
near Godmersham, Hugh speeded in an endeavor to shake 
him off. But Hilyer stuck to us without difficulty, and 
ran up close enough to show his derisive grin at the end 
of the spurt. 

On the channel boat again we had the sensation of 
being w T atched, although we could not have pointed to 
any persons and accused them of spying; and certainly 
none of the members of the Hilyer house party was in 
evidence. Hilyer, himself, called good-by to us from the 
dock. 

“Have a good time,” he shouted genially. “If you get 
to Constantinople, you may see me later.” 

At Calais we passed the Customs and passport officials 
expeditiously because both Hugh and Nikka were person¬ 
ages—a doubtful asset, as we were soon to learn. And on 
the Paris train we actually thought that we had eluded 
surveillance—until we rolled into the Gare du Nord and 


94 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


started to disembark. It was Nikka who discovered the 
little red chalk mark on the door of our compartment, and 
Watkins who spotted a furtive individual w r ho slunk down 
the corridor as we stepped into it, a rat-faced fellow of 
the Apache type that had disappeared during the War 
and somehow floated back with other scum to the surface 
of peacetime life. 

We were all of us familiar with Paris, Nikka and I 
perhaps more so than Hugh. And we drove to a small 
hotel near the Louvre which is noted for its table, its 
seclusion and its steady patronage Aside from the fact 
that it is a little difficult to get a bath there, it is the best 
hotel I know of in the French capital. The proprietor 
welcomed us as old friends, and we were provided with 
the choicest fare and the most comfortable rooms he had 
to offer. 

The four of us were dog-tired—remember, we had been 
steadily “on the prod,” as Hugh said, since we w T akened 
in the early morning hours to repel Toutou’s invasion, and 
the nervous strain had been wearing. But before we turned 
in, after M. Palombiere’s magnificent dinner, Nikka tele¬ 
phoned a private number at the Prefecture of Police. 

The result of his call was demonstrated when we went 
down to breakfast the next morning. A jaunty little man 
in a top-hat and frock-coat, with spats and a gold-headed 
cane, flew up to Nikka and embraced him in the center of 
the lobby. And Nikka introduced him to us as M. 
Doumergue, Commissaire of the Police de Suretie, or 
Secret Police. 

Would he do us the honor of taking breakfast with us? 
Mais, certainement! It was a pleasure of the greatest to 
have the company of M. Zaranko and his cher colleagues. 
His regrets were unspeakable that he might not have an 
extended opportunity to make our acquaintance, as he 
understood from M. Zaranko that we must depart that 
same day. He had taken the necessary steps already to 
dispense with the usual formalities for arriving and de- 


HIDE AND SEEK 


95 


parting travelers, and he had also examined the dossiers 
of the individuals M. Zaranko had named. 

This last was what especially interested us; and we lis¬ 
tened closely to the facts he recited from a notebook. 

“Of Toutou LaFitte, Messieurs, but little can be said. 
If you have seen him, then you have seen one whom no 
police official can claim knowingly to have laid eyes on. 
But we feel him, Messieurs. We hear of him. We sense 
his manifold activities. If the stories which others, like 
yourselves, tell us are true, he is a genius, a monster. 
He rules the criminal world. He has the brain of a 
statesman, the instincts of an animal. 

‘ ‘ Hilmi Bey we know well. During the war he found it 
convenient to dwell in Switzerland. He has been mixed 
up in various shady coups, both in Egypt and in Turkey. 
He has sources of income we have never been able to 
discover. Prior to this nobody has associated him with 
Toutou. 

“And this Russian pair! Yassilievich and Vassilievna! 
They are notorious as international spies. Before the war 
they worked in the German interest. During the War, who 
can say? Had we caught them they would have been 
shot out of hand. But the War is over, I regret to say, 
Messieurs. They hold their titles of right, and undoubt¬ 
edly come of an honorable family or families. For as to 
their being brother and sister—tien! Why worry about 
the unessential? 

“The Hilyers have been watched since before the War 
on suspicion of being implicated in dishonorable gam¬ 
bling transactions. But in France, Messieurs, a wide 
latitude is allowed in these matters, and so far, we have 
not been able to catch them—how is it the excellent Ameri¬ 
cans say? Ah, yes, wiz zee goods. 

“Is this of assistance? I regret deeply I cannot add 
more. But if I can aid you in any way, if you are an¬ 
noyed in Paris or subjected to observation, pray call upon 


96 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


He bowed himself out. 

“That’s all very well,” remarked Hugh, as we wandered 
over to the newstand in the lobby, ‘ ‘ and his information is 
valuable, Nikka, but we can’t call on him officially! If we 
complain of being shadowed at the Prefecture of Police, 
they will ask us the object of it; and if we tell them the 
truth, you can be sure the secret will leak out. Why, the 
policeman who didn’t use such information would be a fool! 
No, lads, the only thing for us to do is to dodge our 
trailers.” 

I shook the Paris edition of the Daily Mail in front of 
him. 

“How the devil can we dodge trailers?” I demanded. 
“I just picked up this paper, and look at what I see on 
the front page.” 

There under a two-line head was the following announce¬ 
ment : 

“Lieut. Col. Lord Chesby, D.S.O., accompanied by Mr. 
Nikka Zaranko, the famous violinist, and Mr. John Nash, 
an American friend, crossed on the Calais boat yesterday 
and arrived in Paris last night. Lord Chesby recently 
succeeded to the title under circumstances of very tragic 
interest. ’ ’ 

“There’s only one thing to do,” said Hugh. “Where’s 
Watkins? We’ll collect him, and book for the first train 
to Marseilles. They’ll expect us to go direct by the Orient 
Express.” 


CHAPTER X 


STOLE AWAY 

W E rather prided ourselves on our cleverness as 
we sat back in a reserved compartment of the 
Lyons-Mediterranean Express, and watched the 
Tour Eiffel fade against the sky. We had moved with 
considerable celerity. First, we had loaded ourselves and 
baggage into waiting taxis in front of the hotel. Then 
we had driven in these to the Gare de l’Est, dodged in 
and out of that whirlpool of life, and reentered two other 
taxis, which we had directed in a reasonless jaunt through 
the central district of Paris. 

Then Nikka and I had left Hugh and Watkins with the 
taxis in a side-street near the Madeleine, and bought the 
tickets at Cook’s. We had returned to the taxis by a 
roundabout route, and resumed our crazy progress from 
one side of the river to the other and back again, now 
crawling up the slopes of Montmartre, now threading the 
narrow ways of the Isle du Cite, now buried in the depths 
of the Quartier, now spinning through the Bois. We had 
lunched at a roadhouse, and returned to the station just in 
time to climb aboard the train. And finally, instead of 
risking the separation entailed by patronage of the wagons 
lit, we had elected to seclude ourselves in a single com¬ 
partment and sleep as best we could. 

Hugh voiced the sentiments of three of us, when he 
stretched out his legs and exclaimed: 

“What price Toutou’s vermin now? I jolly well bet 
they esteem us artful dodgers.” 

Nikka smiled. 

“Don’t be too sure,” he cautioned. “Eluding detec¬ 
tion is their life-work. We are only amateurs.” 

97 


98 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Rats,” grunted Hugh. “Sherlock Holmes, himself, 
couldn’t have traced us, eh, Watty?” 

“I’m sure I don’t see ’ow any one could ’ave followed 
us, your ludship,” replied the valet wearily. “I don’t 
quite know where I am myself, sir.” 

“I fear you haven’t any submerged criminal instincts, 
Watty,” chaffed Hugh. “Now I find myself gettin’ a bit 
of a thrill out of this hide-and-seek stuff. By Jove, I al¬ 
most wish we had the police after us, too. That would be 
a treat!’ ’ 

“A fair treat!” groaned Watkins. “I mean no dis¬ 
respect, your ludship, and it may be there’s no call for 
the remark, but glad I’ll be when this treasure is safe 
in the bank and we can go ’orne to Chesby.” 

We all laughed. 

“How about dinner?” I asked. “Shall we eat by 
shifts or—” 

“What’s the use?” returned Hugh. “We haven’t any¬ 
thing that will do ’em any good, and besides, they’re 
peekin’ into all the compartments of the Orient Express 
at this moment.” 

So we adjourned together to the restaurant-car, dragging 
Watkins with us, much against his will; and we ate a 
jovial meal, all relieved by the relaxation in the strain 
which had been imposed upon us and enjoying the comic 
reluctance with which Watkins permitted himself to be 
forced to sit at the table with Hugh. 

“Dammit, Watty!” Hugh finally explained. “You’re 
not a valet on this trip. You’re a brother adventurer. 
I don’t want any valeting. I’m taking you along for the 
benefit of your strong right arm.” 

“All very well, your ludship,” mourned Watkins, “but 
if the Servants’ ’All ever ’ears of it it’s disgraced I’ll be. 
I couldn’t ’old up me ’ead again.” 

“I’ll take care of that. And do you think we’d leave 
you to eat by yourself? Suppose that pretty lady of 


STOLE AWAY 


99 


yours came in and sat down beside you. What would 
you do?” 

“I’d ’eave ’er out the window, your ludship,” said 
Watkins simply. 

AVe loafed through dinner, and complete darkness had 
shut down when we returned to our compartment. 

“I say,” exclaimed Nikka, as he switched on the light. 
“Was your bag up there when we left, Hugh?” 

Hugh studied the arrangement of the luggage on the 
racks. 

“Can’t say,” he admitted finally. “But it ought to 
show if it’s been pawed over.” 

He hauled it down, and opened it. Everything ap¬ 
parently was in perfect order. 

“Hold on, though,” he cried, pursing his lips in a low 
whistle. 4 ‘AVatty, you packed this bag. Don’t you usually 
put razors at the bottom?” 

“Yes, your ludship.” 

‘ ‘ They ’re on top now. So are my brushes. Everything 
in order, but—What do you say to giving this train a 
look-over, Jack? If there are any familiar faces aboard 
we ought to be able to spot them. Nikka, you and AVatty 
can mount guard here and protect each other until we 
come back.” 

Our car was about in the middle of the train, and at 
my suggestion, Hugh went forward, while I followed the 
corridor toward the rear. I examined carefully the few 
persons standing and talking in the corridors, and violated 
Rule One of European traveling etiquette by poking my 
head into every compartment door which was open. But 
I did not see any one who looked at all like any of the 
members of Toutou’s gang whom I knew. In fact, the 
passengers were the usual lot one sees on a Continental 
through-train. 

I was returning and had reached the rear end of our 
car when I heard a scream just behind me and a door 


100 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


crashed open. I turned involuntarily. A woman in black, 
with a veil flying around her pale face, ran into the cor¬ 
ridor, hesitated and then seized me by the arm. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Monsieur! My husband ! He is so ill, 7 7 she cried 
in French. ‘‘He dies at this moment. I pray you, have 
you a flask? 77 

The tears were streaming from her eyes; her face was 
convulsed with grief. I reached for my flask. 

“Calm yourself, madame, 77 I said. “Do you take this. 
I will ask the guard to help in finding a physician. 77 

“Oh, no, no, 77 she protested. “He has fallen. He is 
so heavy I cannot lift him. And he dies, monsieur! Oh, 
mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! 77 

I slipped past her into the compartment, flask in hand. 
One of the electrics was on, and by its light I discerned 
the body of a man huddled face down on the floor in the 
midst of a litter of baggage and wraps. I dropped the 
flask on one of the seats, and leaned over to hoist the man 
up. As I did so she reentered and closed the door, still 
babbling brokenly in French. 

“If you will help me, please, madame, 77 I suggested. 
“He is very heavy, as you say. 77 

“But gladly, monsieur. If you will turn him over— 
so that we may see if he breathes. 77 

The man was breathing, stertorously, long, labored gasps. 
I could see very little of him, only an unusual breadth of 
shoulder and a sweeping black beard. But I experienced 
an odd sensation of distaste as I touched him, and snatched 
my hands away. The woman began to sob. 

“Oh, monsieur, he will choke! He will choke! 77 

I felt like a cur, and promptly braced my hands be. 
neath his chest. I started to lift him—and my wrists were 
caught in a human vice. So quickly that I could not fol¬ 
low his movements, the inert man on the floor had twisted 
me down beside him, his knee was on my chest, my wind 
was cut off, a pair of steel handcuffs fettered me, and 
as I opened my mouth to scream a cotton gag was 


STOLE AWAY 


101 


thrust into place by the woman who had lured me in. 

“Voila!” she said complacently, knotting the cords of 
the gag around my neck. “Or if you’d rather have it in 
American, Mr. Nash, you’re it. Here, Toutou, get off 
him. You won’t help by crushing his chest in.” 

She gave my captor a shove, and he rose with a growl 
and a menacing gesture of clawed hands to take a seat by 
the door. I could see now that he was Toutou or 
Teodoreschi, cleverly disguised. The black beard concealed 
his intensely pallid face and fell to his waist. A soft 
cloth hat hid the fine contour of his skull. His immense 
chest was minimized by loose, ill-fitting clothes. And the 
evil green eyes, flaring with animal lusts, were ambushed 
behind dark spectacles. 

“Get up,” said the woman. 

She stooped and put her hands under my arm-pits, 
exerting a strength amazing for her size. I staggered up 
and collapsed on the seat opposite Toutou and as far away 
from him as I could get. I was weak from the vigor of 
his handling and the nausea his touch had aroused. In¬ 
wardly, I cursed myself for a fool. I had been neatly 
trapped at the very moment I was priding myself on be¬ 
ing on the alert. 

The woman sat down opposite me, tossed back the veil 
which had been hanging loosely around her face, picked 
up a vanity case and commenced to wipe a generous layer 
of powder from her cheeks. 

She was of a Latin brunette type, with masses of wavy 
black hair, great lustrous brown eyes and a piquant beauty 
of face. As her profile was exposed to me my memory 
was jogged awake. She was Watkins’s pretty lady! And 
I was reinforced in this conclusion when I recalled the 
muscle she had exhibited in helping me up, the off-hand 
expertness with which she had gagged me, performances 
reminiscent of the way the valet had been tripped and 
despoiled of his pistol. 

After a muttered interchange of words with Toutou in 


102 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


a language I did not understand, she fastened her gaze 
on me, and evidently something of my thoughts was re¬ 
flected in my face, for she burst out laughing. 

“You can’t make me out!” she jeered in an unmistakable 
American accent. “You’re not the first, Mr. Nash. How 
is old Watkins? He knows Helene, too, and I’ll bet he 
never wants to see me again. I laugh whenever I think 
of him lying there on the floor gaping up into his own 
pistol. And say, you were lucky that day. I came near 
fetching a bomb with me, and if I had I sure would have 
piled it into that passage. Where would you have been 
then, eh?” 

She chuckled impishly, and Toutou from the shadows at 
his end of the compartment—as I came to find out, the man 
had an animal’s aversion for the light when his enemies 
were present—snarled a sentence that was partly French, 
partly something else. 

“Your affectionate friend tells me to quit kidding and get 
down to business,” she interpreted with a smile. “I’m 
going to take that gag out, Mr. Nash, and Toutou is go¬ 
ing to sit beside you with his hand on the back of your 
neck, and if you so much as start to yip he’ll break it 
just as if you were a chicken.” Her eyes glinted harshly. 
“Do you get me? That goes.” 

I nodded my head. Toutou moved up beside me, and 
a shiver wrenched my spine, as his hand unfastened the 
gag and enclosed my neck. 

“We are perfectly safe,” she continued. “You are 
my insane husband. We are Americans, and I am taking 
you to relatives in Italy. Toutou is the physician in 
charge of the case.” She reached inside her bodice and 
produced some papers. “Here are your passport and a 
medical certificate. Everything is in order. 

The one question is: are you going to do business with 
us willingly or must we make you?” 

I moistened my lips. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I answered as coolly as 


STOLE AWAY 


103 


I could. “I haven’t got anything you might want. Search 
me.” 

“I will.” 

She dug out every pocket. She opened my vest, felt for 
a money-belt, felt inside my shirt, took my shoes off, 
examined them carefully by flash-light, and made sure I 
had nothing in my socks. She w T as a methodical person, 
that lady. Having searched me, she put everything back 
in its proper place, drew on my shoes and laced them. 
Then she sat back and stared at me. 

“And there was nothing in the baggage,” she com¬ 
mented. 

I grinned. But quickly subdued my amusement as 
Toutou snarled beside me and his steel fingers pressed 
until my neck was numb. 

“None of that, Toutou,” she ordered sharply. “What 
about your friends, Mr. Nash?” 

“None of them has anything.” 

“But you found something. You must have. What was 
it?” 

She leaned forward, and her eyes bored into mine. I 
stared back uncompromisingly. 

“I don’t want to have to let Toutou hurt you,” she 
warned softly. 

At that something in me burst into flame. 

“It doesn’t matter what he does,” I spat at her. “He 
can’t make me tell you anything. As a matter of fact, I 
haven’t anything definite, none of us has. But if we had, 
we wouldn’t tell. I’ll die before I help your gang.” 

That sounds like stage heroics, but I was in an exalted 
mood. I could feel Toutou’s grip on my neck, and I 
imagined I didn’t have long to live in any case. 

“It’s only a question of time,” she went on. “You 
don’t realize that you and your friends are alone in this. 
You have a great organization against you. You have as 
much chance as the fly after he touched the flypaper. 
All we have to do is to watch you, and at the worst we 


104 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


can take the treasure away from you when you find it.” 

“Then why are you so anxious now?” I rasped with a 
fair mimicry of Toutou’s feline rage. 

“ ‘There’s many a slip’—” she quoted. “We don’t be¬ 
lieve in leaving anything unnecessarily to chance. You 
know, you are in a hopeless position, my friend. Why 
not talk sensibly? We can easily get rid of you and 
your friends, if we care to.” 

“You’ll find it harder, the longer you delay,” I flashed 
at her. “You are educating us.” 

She laughed as merrily as a convent schoolgirl. 

“So I see.” She leaned closer coaxingly. “Now T , just 
between the two of us—we’re Americans, aren’t we?— 
what did you find behind the chimney? After all, it 
was Toutou who really saw the point first.” 

“That’s true,” I agreed, “but we would have seen it.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, you would! Then what did you find ? Come, 
let’s get this over with! We’ll make an accommodation. 
Think— ’ ’ 

There was a buzz of voices in the corridor. I heard a 
dry official monotone, then Hugh’s clipped English French 
and Nikka’s smooth accent. 

“But he must be on the train, Monsieur—” 

“Ah, but if—” 

“There can be no question he is in one of the cars. 
What objection—” 

“There are people who sleep, women who—” 

“But surely we can search—” 

The woman opposite me hissed one swift sentence to 
Toutou, and rose, crouching towards the door. Hugh’s 
voice, tense and passionate, thundered over the dispute: 

“I don’t give a damn for your rules! My friend is 
missing! I’m going to look—” 

A hand rattled the knob of the door. Helene ripped off 
her waist, dropped her skirt to the floor, and tumbled her 
hair over her shoulders—all in two consecutive movements. 
As she unlocked the door, she clutched her lingerie about 


STOLE AWAY 


105 


her. Toutou reached up one hand, and twitched off the 
single light; his other hand compressed my neck and throat 
so that I could hardly breathe. Helene, herself, pushed 
open the door. 

‘ 1 Why the disturbance, messieurs V ’ she questioned silkily 
in French with the Parisian tang. “In here we have 
illness. Is it necessary—” 

One look was enough for them, I suppose. It would 
have fixed me, I know. I heard Hugh’s boyish gasp, and 
Nikka’s apology. 

“It was a mistake, madame. A friend is missing. We 
thought— ’ ’ 

“Here there are only ourselves,” she assured them hold¬ 
ing the door wider. 

Hugh cursed bluntly in Anglo-Saxon, and the guard 
joined his voice in hectic phraseology. Helene slowly re¬ 
closed the door. 

“The light once more, Toutou,” she whispered, and 
then she sank on the seat and laughed as she had before 
like a schoolgirl on a lark. 

Toutou’s face was demoniac despite beard and glasses. 
Helene saw the purple flush on my cheeks, my straining 
nostrils. 

‘ 1 Beast! ’ ’ she hissed. And she slapped him with her 
bare hand. He cowered before her. She snatched the gag 
from my lap, and readjusted it. “Go!” She pointed 
her finger toward the other end of the compartment, and 
Toutou shambled away cat-fashion. “He will murder you 
yet, Mr. Nash,” she said cheerfully. “And I don’t want 
you to get it into your head that I am going to keep on 
saving you indefinitely.” 

She rearranged her hair, picked up her waist and skirt, 
and put them on as casually as though she was in her 
boudoir. 

“This writing that you found,” she resumed her ques¬ 
tioning, “is it definite? You may nod or shake your 
head-’ * 


106 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


I did neither. 

“Very well/ 7 she answered patiently. “We will try 
yon further.” 

And for two hours she shot questions at me, attacking 
the problem from every conceivable angle, always with 
her eyes glued on my eyes, always vigilant for any sign 
of acquiescence or denial. At last Toutou barked an ob¬ 
servation at her, and she leaned back a trifle w T earily. 

“We approach Lyons/ 7 she said. “I shall let you go 
this time, Mr. Nash, principally because if we killed you 
it might frighten your friends away. Above everything, 
if we cannot learn the secret first, we must get you to 
Constantinople. 77 

Toutou took from one of their bags a length of stout 
rope, and tied my legs from ankle to knee. The train 
was already whistling for the station yards. Helene 
donned hat and furs, and patted my shoulder. 

“I wish you were with us, my friend. Ah, well, one 
wishes for the moon. Be of a stout heart, and remember 
that Helene de Cespedes has saved you from the knife. 
I fancy we shall meet again, and as I said, I cannot 
promise always to be so kind-hearted. 77 

She let Toutou collect their two bags, saw him to the 
door and then switched off the single light. They went 
out, the door closed, and I was in darkness. I strained 
at my bonds, but without success. Suddenly, the door was 
reopened. The head of Helene de Cespedes showed against 
the lights in the corridor. 

“Here is the key to those wristlets/ 7 she whispered, 
sliding it along the seat toward me. “Your friends can 
unlock them when they find you. I don’t believe in being 
too hard on an enemy—not when you don’t have to be. 
Well, so long, boy.” 

I chuckled to myself as the door clicked the second time. 
She was a character, and no ordinary woman, judging by 
her prowess in curbing Toutou 7 s savage lusts. I was still 
reflecting on the amazing three hours I had experienced 


STOLE AWAY 


107 


in that railway compartment, when the brakes took hold, 
and the train slowed to a stop between the brightly- 
lighted platforms of the Lyons station. There was the 
customary clatter of arriving and departing passengers. 
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside; a hand 
wrenched at the door; and a guard bundled in, with two 
people behind him. As he turned on the light his face was 
a study in consternation. The two people with him bolted 
pell-mell into the corridor, shrieking in terror. The guard 
stood fast, and stared at me, stroking his chin. 

“Sacre ~bleau!” he muttered to himself. “Name of a 
Boche, the mad Englishman was right! I believe they 
have murdered his friend!” 

But then I wriggled to attract his attention to the fact 
that I was alive, and the consternation on his face changed 
to cunning. 

“But no,” he reflected aloud. “It may be this is a 
criminal. Are there, perhaps, gendarmes in company with 
it? It is for the chef de gare —” 

But at that moment Hugh, attracted by the rumpus 
the two startled passengers were making in the corridor, 
forced his way into the compartment, shoved the guard 
headlong on the floor and grabbed me by the arm. 

“Are you all right, old man?” he cried. “For God’s 
sake, what have they done with you?” 

I motioned to the key on the seat, and he fitted it 
clumsily to the handcuffs. Nikka and Watkins ran in 
about this time; the guard regained his feet; the two 
passengers returned; some more people tried to climb on 
their shoulders to see what was going on; somebody else 
fetched the police. 

To the latter I told a hasty cock-and-bull story. Ban¬ 
dits had assailed me, searched me for valuables which 
luckily I did not possess, and left me as I was found. I 
described Toutou and his companion exactly as they had 
appeared, sardonically convinced that they would be able 
to take care of themselves against any detectives the 


108 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


French provinces could boast; and the police, impressed 
by Hugh’s title and our assertion that we had an im¬ 
portant business engagement in Marseilles, placed no ob¬ 
stacles in the way of our departure. 

So the express steamed out of Lyons ten minutes late, 
and Hugh and Nikka and Watkins escorted me back to 
our own compartment. And when I reached there, and 
was safe from observation, I jangled the handcuffs before 
their eyes and lay back and laughed until they thought I 
was hysterical. 

“It may have been funny for you,” snapped Hugh. 
“It certainly wasn’t for us. We were just getting ready 
to unload at Lyons, convinced that you had been thrown 
or fallen off the train.” 

“It’s funny for all of us,” I insisted, wiping the tears 
from my eyes. “It’s a joke—on us. Don’t you see it, 
Hugh? You were claiming that we had shaken them 
off, that we could sound the ‘Stole Away.’ And then 
they ransacked our baggage and kidnapped me on a 
crowded train. I tell you they are artists. There never 
was such a gang. And as for Watty’s pretty lady, she 
is the greatest society villainness outside of the movies. 
Didn’t you feel like a cur when she stood there in the 
door pulling her poor little undies together, with the hair 
tumbled in her eyes?” 

“I’ll say I did,” answered Hugh with feeling. “That’s 
score for them again.” * 

Nikka grinned at both of us. 

“Don’t be downhearted, you chaps. The law of aver¬ 
ages works in these affairs as in everything. And any¬ 
how, I’ve got a plan.” 


CHAPTER XI 


WE SPLIT THE SCENT 

N IKKA’S plan was simple enough. 

“When I was a boy and traveled with the 
tribe,” he said, “and we wished to cross a fron¬ 
tier without being bothered by the Customs officers or the 
Royal foresters, we divided into two parties and struck 
off for our destination by two different routes.” 

Hugh nodded. 

“I see. You split the scent.” 

1 ‘ Exactly. Our trailers are experts, as I told you chaps 
they would be. If you will take my advice, you will 
adopt Gypsy tactics against them. Confuse them, string 
out their pursuit—and then, perhaps, we can baffle them.” 

“I think you’re right,” answered Hugh. “What do 
you say, Jack?” 

“Suits me,” I agreed. “Nikka obviously knows more 
about this kind of game than we do.” 

“I’ve had experience,” replied Nikka simply. “Be¬ 
sides, it’s in my blood. Ever since we embarked on this 
expedition I have felt the old Gypsy strain in me clamor¬ 
ing for the open road. Toutou’s gang are using Gyp¬ 
sies. Very well, let us use Gypsies.” 

“But how can we?” interrupted Hugh. 

“My name still means something to my people,” said 
Nikka with that mediaeval sang-froid which had amazed 
me once before. “My father’s tribe will fight for me. 
But in the first place, this is what I suggest. Instead 
of sailing for Constantinople by the Messageries Mari¬ 
time from Marseilles, let us take the train to Brindisi. 

Our trailers will expect us either to sail on the Mes- 

109 


110 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


sageries packet or else go by rail to Belgrade and con¬ 
nect with the Orient Express for Constantinople. 

“By going to Brindisi we shall surprise them, and per¬ 
haps disarrange their plans. Mind you, I don’t expect 
to throw them off; but they will be uncertain. At Brin¬ 
disi we can connect with a boat for Piraeus. When we 
board that boat they will begin to believe that they under¬ 
stand our plans, because at Piraeus one finds frequent 
sailings for Constantinople. And we shall book passage 
from Piraeus for Constantinople, as they expect. But 
after we have gone aboard with our baggage, Jack and I 
will leave the boat by stealth.” 

“How are you going to manage all that?” I inter¬ 
rupted. 

“You can always bribe a steward,” returned Nikka. 
“It will be for Hugh and Watkins to keep the enemy’s 
attentions occupied. They can engage in conversations 
with us through the door of our stateroom, and that sort 
of thing.” 

“But what then?” demanded Hugh. “You divide 
forces. That makes each party half as strong as we are 
now.” 

“There’ll be no harm in that,” Nikka reassured him. 
“Our shadows will soon find out that Jack and I are not 
on the Constantinople boat, and they won’t venture to 
touch you and Watkins until they have located us—which 
I assure you they won’t be able to do.” 

“Why not?” 

“Jack and I are going to take another boat for Salonika, 
and from Salonika we shall go by train to Seres in the 
eastern tip of Greek Macedonia. At Seres—and I don’t 
expect them to be able to trail us there—Jack and I will 
disappear. We shall cease to exist. There will be two 
additional members in the band of Wasso Mikali, my 
mother’s brother, and that band will be traveling to Con¬ 
stantinople with horses from the Dobrudja to trade with 
officers of the Allied detachments in the city.” 


WE SPLIT THE SCENT 


111 


“And Watty and I?” questioned Hugh. 

“You go to the Per a Palace Hotel. Meet this Miss 
King and her father, but don’t let anybody suspect that 
you expected to meet them. Remember, you will be 
watched all the time. Your rooms and your baggage will 
be searched. I think they will investigate the Kings, too. 
Yes, that is likely. You must have Miss King hide 
the copy of the Instructions you sent her. Not in 
her trunks—ah, I have it! Let her place it in an 
envelope, addressed to herself, Poste restante. She can 
go to the Post Office and collect it whenever we need 
it. 

“You and Watkins will not be in any danger. Toutou’s 
people will be too busy trying to find Jack and me. They 
will be suspecting that you are simply bait to distract 
their attention—which will be quite correct. But you 
must be careful not to venture around the city without 
plenty of company. Take an Allied officer with you 
whenever you can. .You might use the daylight hours to 
find the site of the Bucoleon.” 

“Professor King can help them there,” I interrupted. 
“He knows old Constantinople quite well.” 

“Excellent,” applauded Nikka. “But remember, 
Hugh, I said ‘daylight hours.’ Don’t venture around 
indiscriminately, and don’t go anywhere, even in the day¬ 
light, without several other people. The larger your 
party, the safer you will be against accidents—and it is 
an accident, rather than a deliberate attack, you will have 
to guard against.” 

“But how are we going to get in touch with you?” 
asked Hugh. 

“Leave that to us,” replied Nikka, with his quiet grin. 
“Make it a custom to lounge in front of the Pera Palace 
every morning after breakfast for half an hour; and keep 
a watch out for Gypsies. You’ll be seeing them all the 
time, of course, but don’t let on that you’re interested 
in them. Some morning two especially disreputable 


112 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


fellows will come by, and one of them will contrive to 
get a word with you. Follow them.” 

“That’s a corking plan,” Hugh approved warmly. 
“Well, lads, we’ll be in Marseilles early in the morning. 
Shall we nap a bit?” 

If we were followed in Marseilles, we didn’t know it. 
We only left the railroad station to get breakfast and dis¬ 
patch a telegram from Nikka to his uncle—or, rather, to 
an address in Seres which acted as a clearing-house for 
the operations of this particular Gypsy band. Then we 
took the train for Milan, and stopped off over-night to 
secure some sleep. The Italian railways were never very 
comfortable, and the War did not improve them. 

We figured, too, that by stopping at Milan we might 
additionally confuse our shadows, as the city was a natural 
point of departure for Belgrade. But the first person I 
saw in the Southern Express restaurant-car was Helene 
de Cespedes. She had discarded her black dress for a 
modish costume with furs, and sat by herself in dignified 
seclusion, looking at once smartly aristocratic and in¬ 
nocently lovely. She greeted me with a smile, and 
crooked her finger. 

“Don’t you ’ave nothing to do with ’er, Mister Jack,” 
breathed Watkins explosively from the rear of our group. 
“That’s 9 er!” 

“Is that the pretty lady?” whispered Hugh. “My 
word, Watty, I’ll forgive you! Jack, you hound, intro¬ 
duce us. She looks better than she did the other night!” 

I looked at Nikka. 

“It’s a good plan to know your enemies,” he said. 
“They already know us. It can’t do any harm for us 
to know them.” 

Helene gave us a charming smile. 

“I’m delighted to meet you boys,” she said. “And 
dear old Watkins! We’re quite friends, aren’t we, Wat¬ 
kins?” 


WE SPLIT THE SCENT 


113 


Watkins mumbled something that I fear was scarcely 
courteous. 

“You can introduce me as the Countess de Cespedes, if 
you like, Mr. Nash,” she continued. “I wonder if you 
knew Cespedes, Mr. Zaranko? He was a rotten old duf¬ 
fer, but he took me off the stage.” 

“I’ve heard of him,” said Nikka, smiling. “Didn’t he 
leave you anything to keep you going?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Other girls had the pickings before I met him. There 
was nothing left for me but the name.” 

‘ ‘ Is that the only one you use ? ’ ’ asked Hugh. 

“Oh, come, now,” she remonstrated. “There’s a flag 
of truce up. Really, though, if you mention our opposi¬ 
tion, I ought to compliment you on your work so far. I 
believe you might elude any mob but ours.” 

“We’ll leave the decision on that point to the future,” 
smiled Nikka. “By the way, how did you come to get 
into this game?” 

She shrugged her shoulders again. She was an odd mix¬ 
ture of Latin grace and American ease. 

“It’s the sort of thing I do best. My folks were Wops 
of some kind. I was born in New York. I went with 
crooks after I left school. Then I joined the Follies, and 
a broker cottoned to me. He educated me, music, lan¬ 
guages, all that stuff. I went to Paris with him. When 
we broke off, I tried the stage there. It was just be¬ 
fore the War. I was only a kid still, and Cespedes fell 
for me. After he croaked I tried a bit of everything. For 
a while I worked for the Austrians—” 

“Spy?” questioned Nikka. 

“Sure. There’s no harm in mentioning it now, and 
anyway, I was never caught. That was how I happened to 
meet Serge and Sandra; they were in Toutou’s mob. I 
needed money; he needed brains and a doll-baby face.” 

“You seem to have a grip on him,” I said. “But I 


114 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


don’t see how you can stand the beast. He gives me the 
creeps.” 

She eyed me curiously. 

“I’m not afraid of him,” she answered indifferently. 
“Most women are attracted by him, you know. You 
haven’t seen his other side.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“I hope you don’t,” she agreed. “Say, did you know 
you made quite a hit with Sandra, Mr. Nash?” 

Hugh and Nikka laughed. I flushed. 

“Oh, you needn’t flare up,” she said. “I can see why 
you did. You boys are a good bunch of sports. I wish 
we didn’t have to trim you.” 

“Why do it, then?” asked Hugh. 

“I don’t sell out,” she answered curtly. “Get that 
straight, Lord Chesby. Since I was a kid, I’ve had to 
fight my own way. As near as I can make out, the kind 
of people who are called respectable and honest are only 
cleverer crooks than the rest of us. I’m out to make all 
I can in my own way, and I play according to the rules 
of my mob.” 

“You called us good sports,” Nikka pointed out. 

It was her turn to flush. 

“Call it a woman’s soft heart,” she returned. “Hon¬ 
estly, I get fed up on this life once in a while. If I could 
have married a decent Wop back in New York, and had 
a few kids and worked my fingers off—Well, I wouldn’t 
have been able to get along without corsets and put it 
over you the way I did in the Marseilles train the other 
night, Lord Chesby.” 

“That may be true,” Hugh agreed. “You are the first 
—ah—” 

‘ ‘ Crook, ’ ’ she flashed, with a show of white teeth. 

“Thanks for the word. You are the first of your species 
I’ve had the pleasure of meetin’. I don’t quite see the 
attraction of the life for you.” 


WE SPLIT THE SCENT 


115 


“You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I’m what you English 
call a wrong ’un. Maude Hilyer thinks that if she and 
Montey could cash in they would chuck this life and go 
straight. But I know she’s dead wrong. If you’re once 
wrong, you’re always wrong. The best thing you can do 
is to play safe and steer clear of the cops. That’s me.” 

“But I say!” Hugh objected. “You say everybody is 
crooked, and next you say—” 

“Never mind what I say,” she interrupted. “You 
aren’t going to reform me. And I’m against you. And 
if I can trim you I’ll do it, and if Toutou wants to 
knife you, and it won’t interfere with the game, why, I’ll 
let him go ahead. And with it all, I like you. Now, do 
you understand me?” 

“Yes,” said Hugh, smiling. “I once met a very gal¬ 
lant Bavarian gentleman between two sets of barbed wire 
to arrange about burying some dead soldiers, and we found 
we liked each other very much. But afterward we tried 
hard to kill each other, and I am afraid I succeeded.” 

“You’ve got me,” she assented. “Well, you must be 
hungry, boys. You don’t want to save a lot of trouble, and 
maybe your lives, by giving up that treasure secret, I 
suppose ? ’ ’ 

“No, thanks, Countess,” laughed Hugh. “We’ll give 
you a bit of a run for your money yet.” 

She laughed back with that pleasant, well-bred trill of 
a carefree schoolgirl, and we bowed and left her. 

The next time we saw her she was standing by the 
gangplank of the steamer at Brindisi. 

“Aren’t you going on with us?” I hailed her. 

“No, Mr. Nash. I’m leaving you in competent hands. 
Good lord, boy, you can’t dodge us. We’ve got a system 
—well, the late well-known Czar might have been proud 
to own it. Be good, and give up before you get hurt.” 

“That goes for your people, too,” I replied a trifle 
grimly, for I was growing tired of threats. 


116 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


She waved her hand impatiently, and stepped over to 
my side. Hugh and the others already were passing up 
the gangplank. 

“Say, boy, I don’t want you to get hurt. Neither does 
Sandra. If anything goes wrong, watch your step. We’ll 
do what we can, but—” 

She pivotted on her heel and melted into the crowd. 
I climbed the gangplank with my chin on my shoulder, 
and was met with a shower of joshes by Hugh and Nikka. 

“Doin’ a little missionary work?” inquired Hugh. 

“Do you flatter yourself you’re aroused the lady’s dis¬ 
interested affection?” asked Nikka. 

“No, to both of you,” I retorted. “But she—what’s 
the words the novelists use?—oh, yes, she intrigues me.” 

“She’ll intrigue you ou»t of everything you know, if 
you’re not careful,” Nikka warned me. 

“Remember what she did to Watty,” cautioned Hugh. 

“The ’ussey!” grunted Watkins, who could never bear 
to hear her mentioned. 

Hugh predicted that we would yet meet her on board, 
but a diligent search of the vessel failed to reveal any¬ 
one, in or out of trousers, who remotely resembled her, and 
we took account of several blonde northern peasants in 
our canvass. Also, whoever she had delegated to watch 
us kept themselves severely in the background. We were 
not conscious of any espionage. 

At Piraeus we had a choice of several steamers sailing 
for Constantinople, none of them Greek, however, as 
Greece was at war with the Kemalist government which 
had been set up in Anatolia. Nikka pitched upon a French 
boat that lay across the wharf from a Greek liner plying 
to Salonika and the Greek islands of the iEgean. The 
Frenchman was sailing at dawn the next morning; the 
Salonika boat was due to cast off several hours later. 

We booked two cabins on the Frenchman, and hired a 
clerk at the British consulate to reserve a cabin and pas¬ 
sage for two on the Salonika boat. This arrangement 


WE SPLIT THE SCENT 


117 


made, we mustered our scanty baggage, and boarded the 
Frenchman just before dinnertime. We dined together 
ostentatiously in the saloon, having publicly concluded a 
treaty with the purser that we might spend the night on 
board and so avoid the inconvenience of an early morn¬ 
ing start. And after dinner, with many yawns and pro¬ 
testations of weariness, we betook ourselves to bed. 

Our cabins were next to each other, and as a matter of 
fact, we played poker until long past midnight. Then 
Nikka and I said good-by to Hugh and Watty, and sneaked 
out into the companionway. Several sleepy stewards 
eyed us, but there were no passengers about. The quar¬ 
termaster on guard at the gangway we handed a Napoleon, 
telling him we were obliged to land in order to dispose 
of some forgotten business. The watchman on the pier 
was conciliated in the same way. And finally, the deck- 
guard of the Greek liner, once his fingers were greased 
and our tickets shown to him, offered no objection to es¬ 
corting us to our cabin. 

At dawn we were awakened by the whistling of the 
Frenchman as he backed out from the pier, and from a 
porthole we watched him disappear in the mist of the har¬ 
bor. At noon the Epaminondas likewise cast off, and 
Nikka and I thankfully abandoned our battles with the 
cockroaches that fought with us for possession of the 
bunks, and ascended to the deck. 

Nikka sniffed the air as we stepped from the saloon 
companionway. 

“It’s good to be out of that stink below,” I remarked 
with feeling. 

“I am trying to smell an enemy,” he answered curtly. 

“To smell—” I hastily checked my temptation to ridi¬ 
cule him, remembering that occasionally Nikka was start¬ 
lingly metamorphosed in to a creature of primordial in¬ 
stincts. “Oh,” I said lamely, “and—er—do you?” 

“No,” he said seriously. “It is as Hugh said. We 
have split the scent. They are at fault.” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 

A T Salonika we entered a Europe which was new 
to me, if an old story to Nikka, a Europe which 
w r as blended with the life and color and form of 
the Orient. Tall minarets like fingers of doom pointed 
skyward over bulbous domes, and driving to the railroad 
station through blocks of shabby houses that had replaced 
an area ravaged by fire, we heard the high-pitched, wail- 
call of the muezzin. 

Jews in long, black gaberdines: Albanian Arnauts, Tosks, 
Ghegs and Malissori tribesmen, stately and savage; Greek 
mountaineers in the dirty, starched fustenella; tall Serb 
peasants, with the bearing of nobles and the faces of 
poets; Bulgars, stolid, imperturbable and level-eyed; hawk- 
nosed Ottoman Turks in tasseled fezzes; Armenians, 
fawning and humble; lank, hungry Syrians; treacherous- 
looking Greeks of the Peninsula; Greeks of the Islands, 
beautiful as statues by Phidias; Roumanians, with heavy 
black brows and the stocky build of Trajan’s legionaries; 
Tziganes, lean and gaudily dressed; Kurds, with cruel eyes 
and the bow-legs of a race of horsemen;—all the races of 
the Near East swarmed and crowded and cursed and pushed 
along the untidy sidewalks. 

“This is No Man’s Land,” said Nikka as our dilapi¬ 
dated automobile forced a slow progress through the con¬ 
gested traffic. “All races here hate one another. We are 
two hundred years behind western Europe. Here treach¬ 
ery is the rule. Might is right. The strong hand takes all. 
Women are inferior beings—save amongst my own race.” 
His thin face lit with a smile. 

118 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 


119 


“Many things can be said against my people, but we 
give our women freedom. Yet over us, as over all the 
other peoples, still hangs the shadow of Islam, shutting out 
the sun, denying culture, restricting thought.” 

At the railroad station we fought for places in a first- 
class compartment, which had room for six and must ac¬ 
commodate eight. The second and third-class cars were 
jammed to the doors. Women wept, children howled and 
men swore and struck each other and their women indis¬ 
criminately. In the midst of it all, with one warning 
whistle-blast, the train lunged out of the station, shaking 
off superfluous passengers as it jolted over the switch on to 
the main line. 

That was a dreadful journey, not long as regards dis¬ 
tance, but tediously protracted in time. The country grew 
steadily more mountainous as we left the coast. The en¬ 
gine panted and heaved; the cars rattled and shook. At 
frequent intervals we stopped by some station, and the 
scenes of our departure from Salonika were repeated ac¬ 
cording to scale. But the engine toiled on, and in the full 
tide of hours we crawled over a mountain-ridge and saw 
the sun rising in the east beyond the close-packed roofs 
of Seres. 

It was a town that seemed to huddle together as though 
in fear, and there were great gashes and gaps in its lines 
of white-washed house-walls, relics of three wars, each of 
which had taken toll of its citizens. Here and there a 
church or a mosque, a school or a government building, 
rose above the level of two-story dwellings. But it had 
none of the teeming squalor and gorgeous conflict of colors 
that made Salonika so effective a gateway. 

Nikka commandeered a fiacre in the station-square. 

“Do you know the house of Kostabidjian the money¬ 
lender?” he asked the driver in Greek that sounded more 
than passable to me. “Very well, then, drive us there.” 

“Who is Kostabidjian?” I inquired as the driver 
whipped up his small horses. 


120 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


A dour, secretive look had settled on Nikka’s face in the 
last two days. His eyes had narrowed, and their gaze was 
fixed upon the far horizon when they were not shrewdly 
surveying the appearances of people around him. 

“He is the agent of the tribe,” he replied shortly. “It 
was through him I sent word to my uncle.” 

I held my peace after that. We drove for half an hour 
into the northeastern suburbs, where the houses became 
little villas, with courtyards and small gardens, and some¬ 
times orchards behind. At last we stopped at a gateway 
overhung by olive-trees, and the driver got down to pull 
the bell-wire which protruded from an opening by the gate. 
The solemn clangor echoed faintly, and was succeeded by 
shuffling foot-steps. A wicket opened, and a dark, be- 
whiskered face was revealed. Nikka ejaculated a single 
sentence in the Gypsy dialect that Toutou’s gang some¬ 
times used, and the gate swung ajar. I gave the driver of 
the fiacre a couple of drachmas, and followed Nikka inside. 

The individual with the whiskers, a dried-up, elderly 
man, quickly fastened the gate again, with a sidewise look 
at Nikka, half respect, half fear. The courtyard was 
empty, save for some ponies and mules under a shed at 
the rear, and the custodian motioned to us to follow him 
to the house. 

At the door, he stood aside and ushered us into a parlor 
furnished in the French style. Off it opened a dining¬ 
room. A stout, smooth-faced, elderly man rose from a 
desk as we entered. Fie started to salaam, thought better 
of it, and offered his hand, which Nikka grasped per¬ 
functorily. Then he commenced to speak in the Tzigane 
dialect, and Nikka cut him off. 

‘ ‘ Speak French, ’ ’ said Nikka curtly. ‘ ‘ I have no secrets 
from my friend, Mr. Nash.” And to me: “This is Mon¬ 
sieur Kostabidjian.” 

Kostabidjian bowed to me. 

“My poor home is honored, indeed, by two such dis¬ 
tinguished guests,” he protested. “Monsieur Zaranko, it 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 


121 


is many years now since I had the pleasure of meeting you, 
but you will find that I have executed all your commissions 
faithfully.’ ’ 

Nikka smiled sarcastically. 

“You would not be alive and whole if you had not,” 
he commented. 

“Surely, you do not mean that you think I would do 
anything else,” cried Kostabidjian. 

“I mean I am sure that you do as I command,” re¬ 
turned Nikka impatiently. “Also, that I feel I do not have 
to rely upon your honesty in the matter. Now, what news 
have you for me?” 

Kostabidjian—he was an Armenian of uncertain par¬ 
entage, I afterwards discovered, with the ingrained ser¬ 
vility pounded into that unfortunate race by centuries of 
oppression—drew up chairs for us. 

“The telegram was forwarded at once to the Chief,” he 
answered. “But Wasso Mikali sent back word yesterday 
that he would be delayed in waiting upon you in con¬ 
sequence of a caravan of cartridges which the band are 
running into Albania. It is an affair which has attracted 
his attention for the past month, and he dares not trust the 
work to another.” 

“Does he, himself, go to Albania?” 

“No, Monsieur Zaranko. But the starting of the cara¬ 
van, and the paying of the purchase-price—” 

“In advance?” 

“Of course.” 

“Good,” said Nikka. “When will he be here?” 

“He spoke of to-morrow—” 

“Then serve us food, and lead us to a room where we 
may rest.” 

The Armenian clapped his hands, and the old man with 
the whiskers—who was dumb in consequence of having 
had his tongue cut out in one of the Turkish massacres of 
the red past—returned and carried word in his own fashion 
of our wants to the kitchen. Presently we sat down in the 


122 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


dining room to a hot meal of pilaf, with chicken, dough 
cakes and coffee, which Kostabidjian pressed upon us of¬ 
ficiously. 

i 1 It has been a hard year for the tribe, Monsieur 
Zaranko,” he purred, rubbing his hands together. “I 
don’t know what they w T ould have done without your aid.” 

“The subject is not for discussion,” rapped Nikka. 

* ‘ Oh, ah ! Certainly! ’ ’ 

And he was quiet for a few minutes. Then his loquacity 
gained the better of him, and he burst forth: 

“It’s not as it used to be in the Balkans, gentlemen! 
The law doesn’t run any stronger. I’ll say that. And 
boundaries are still vague, for all that the great ones in 
Paris decided. But people are poor as Hajji Achmet after 
he’d been to Mecca. They earn nothing, and have nothing 
—and therefore there’s nothing to take or to steal. Hee- 
hee-hee! ’’ 

“You talk nonsense,” said Nikka savagely. “Am I to 
be annoyed by such as you?” 

No prince could have been more arrogant; no lackey 
could have succumbed more completely. 

“P-p-par-d-dd-don!” The Armenian’s teeth rattled. 
“I—I—” 

“You may go. I will summon you if I have need.” 

The man went like a whipped dog, and cowered over 
his mysterious accounts at the desk in the next room. 

Nikka sat through the meal with a black frown on his 
face. He was plainly out of sorts, and while I could un¬ 
derstand his aversion to Kostabidjian, I was secretly 
amazed by the constantly growing change in his manner, 
for he was normally of a uniformly pleasant disposition. 
But it was not until we had been shown to a bedroom on 
the upper floor that he unmasked his feelings. I began to 
undress, but he paced the floor restlessly from wall to 
wall. Suddenly he turned on me: 

“Jack, I hope I haven’t insulted you in the past twenty- 
four hours.” 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 


123 


“I’m not aware of it, if you have/’ I returned cheer¬ 
fully. 

“Pm having a hell of a time/’ he groaned. “The two 
seifs in me are wrenching at my soul. There’s Nikka, the 
Gypsy freebooter, who has been dead for years, and against 
him fights Nikka, the artist and man of the town. Neither 
of them owns me. Until the other day—except now and 
then when the old self reared its head temporarily—I 
thought I had thrust the Gypsy behind me. But I was a 
fool to think so, Jack. God, what a fool! Why, the music 
in me always was Gypsy! 

“But I thought I had submerged it, drowned it. I 
thought I was like you and Hugh. I know better now. 
Since we started east I have felt these half-dead instincts 
rising up in me, clutching at my soul, tormenting my in¬ 
telligence. The hunger for the open road, contempt for 
order and law, the mastery of my own will, all these 
things call to me. And yet, Jack, I feel ashamed! I feel 
ashamed to bring you here, to have you meet the fellow 
downstairs, who, when all is said and done, is the agent 
through whom my people dispose of what they steal and 
smuggle. 

“For that’s the truth, Jack! My people are not like 
Toutou’s gang. But they are Gypsies. They live by their 
own hands, and every man’s hand is against them. They 
make their own laws, and abide by their own customs. 
They take what they need, and consider it their due. 
Kostabidjian spoke of my uncle’s running cartridges to 
Albania. I know what it means. After the War there 
were vast stocks of ammunition scattered all over the 
Balkans, treasure trove to such wild peoples. The Allies 
ruled that it should be surrendered or destroyed. But do 
you suppose it was? Never! 

“It was stolen, hidden and smuggled. I would swear 
that my tribe have sold it to Kemal Bey, to the Russian 
Soviets. Now, the Greeks and the Serbs are pressing down 
on the Albanians, and my uncle sells to the Albanians. 


124 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


If he can, too, he will sell to the Greeks and the Serbs; 
and he will take—steal, if you like—whatever of value he 
can get from all three of them. 

“I tell you all this, because I don’t want to fly false 
colors with you. I lived that life when I was a boy. But 
I should like to make you understand that in some way, 
by some esoteric, involved, well-nigh impenetrable process 
of psychology, it is not stealing in the sense that Toutou 
steals. My people have been outcasts for centuries; they 
have been bred up in this way of life. It is as natural 
for them to take what they need, and thrive on other 
people’s needs, as it is for the Arabs to practice the same 
methods in battling the hardships of the desert. 

“It isn’t wrong in their eyes. Put it that way. And 
I—I can see it both ways, Jack. I can see how wrong it 
is, and I can see how right it seems to them.” 

I dropped my hand on his shoulder. 

“You don’t need to say all this to me,” I told him. 
“Why, Nikka, it’s—it’s—” 

“It’s what? Hard to understand!” 

“Easy to understand,” I corrected. “Hard to phrase. 
But I know you too well to worry about you. As for the 
wrench, I’m beginning to feel it myself.” 

Nikka resumed his restless pacing. 

“I don’t mind anything so much as that oily Armenian 
downstairs,” he insisted. “He—he is dishonest. And we 
make him dishonest. Not that I’ve used him so, Jack. 
Most of what I earn goes to my people, who need it, poor 
souls, especially since the War laid its blight on all south¬ 
eastern Europe. Kostabidjian is one of the agents I em¬ 
ploy to distribute my funds. I use him because of his 
connection with my uncle’s tribe.” 

“Most of us have to use dishonest helpers occasionally,” 
I said. “I’d hate to have to guarantee every business as¬ 
sociate of mine. But can we trust this man, Nikka? If 
he’s all you indicate him, isn’t he likely to sell us out?” 

“He’d sell us out in a minute, if he dared,” rejoined 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 


125 


Nikka, with a tight-lipped smile. “But he knows that 
if he did he would get a knife in him. It would be only 
a question of time.” 

“Nice company you’ve dragged me into,” I grumbled. 
“Well, let’s catch up on our sleep.’ 

His outburst had eased Nikka’s nervous tension, and he 
soon dozed off. For a while I watched the afternoon 
sunlight outside the windows, then the weariness of our 
travels overcame me, and I, too, slept. ... I woke 
abruptly, feeling a light blazing in my eyes. My first 
thought was of Toutou and Helene de Cespedes, and I 
dived under the pillow for my automatic and sat up at the 
same time. 

A man was standing in the doorway of the room, with a 
kerosene lamp in his hand, a tall man, with the proud face 
of an eagle. Wisps of silver-white hair escaped from the 
varicolored turban that wrapped his brows, but he held 
himself with the erect poise of youth. He was dressed 
in tight breeches of brown cloth, and a blue shirt and short 
red jacket. Flat sandals of bull’s-hide, sewed to a point 
at the toes, were laced over his bare feet by straps that 
wound across his insteps and above his ankles. Around 
his waist was twisted a heavy sash, bristling with knives 
and pistols. 

As I prodded Nikka awake, he closed the door behind 
him and set the lamp on a table, calmly ignoring my pistol. 
Nikka, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, took one look at 
the apparition and jumped from the bed. 

“Wasso!” he cried. 

The stranger raised fingers to lips and breast in a grace¬ 
ful salaam, and replied in the Gypsy patois, a cadenced, 
musical speech when used by those to whom it was a mother- 
tongue. Nikka grasped his hand, and exchanged a rapid- 
fire of question and answer, then called to me: 

“This is my uncle. He arrived sooner than he expected. 
He guessed my need was great, and traveled without re¬ 
spite. Come and meet him.” 


126 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Wasso Mikali rendered me a salaam and a handshake. 
His bright eyes surveyed my face, and he made a comment 
which drew a laugh from Nikka. 

“My uncle thinks you have the look of one "who likes 
to know how many cartridges his enemy carries,” Nikka 
translated. 

The old Gypsy sank to his haunches on the bare floor, 
with a sweeping gesture of invitation to both of us to join 
him. 

“No, no,” exclaimed Nikka as I started for a chair. 
“He has never sat on a chair in his life. Do as he does 
or he will think you are trying to demonstrate how dif¬ 
ferent you are.” 

So I crouched cross-legged beside them—it seemed to be 
easy enough for Nikka to resume the ways of his boy¬ 
hood—and concealed my discomfort as stoically as I could. 
It was close to midnight when we were awakened, and 
the talk with Wasso Mikali lasted for several hours. First, 
Nikka explained to him the circumstances of our trip 
to Constantinople, and the old man’s eyes glistened at the 
mention of the treasure. He interrupted with a liquid 
flow of polysyllables. 

“He says,” Nikka interpreted, when he had finished, 
“that he has heard about it. It is just as I told you and 
Hugh, the tradition is known all through the Balkans. He 
says that the treasure iis concealed in an ancient palace in 
Stamboul which has been inhabited longer than men can 
remember by a tribe of Gypsies whose chief is one Beran 
Tokalji. He says that this Tokalji is a great thief—” 
Nikka grinned ruefully—“that comes well from my uncle, 
'Jack, and that there is a rumor amongst the tribes that 
he, Tokalji, is an ally of a group of Frank thieves. There 
is a tradition in Tokalji’s tribe that their forefathers be¬ 
lieved the treasure ultimately would go to them.” 

“Will he help us?” I asked eagerly. 

Nikka gave me an odd look. 


THE BALKAN TRAIL 


127 


“His tribe are mine. My wish is their wish. How can 
they refuse?” 

“Yes,” I insisted, “but how much will they want? Is 
it safe to tell him all this ? ’ ’ 

Nikka’s face flushed purple. For a moment I thought 
he would strike me. Then he turned, and shot a question 
at the old Gypsy, who replied with an amused grin. 

“I did not repeat your second question,” said Nikka 
coldly. “He would not have taken it in good grace even 
from me. But I did tell him your first. Do you want to 
know just what his answer was?” 

“Yes,” I said, “and I say, Nikka, don’t be uppish be¬ 
cause I don’t know the ropes about your damned family. 
Man dear, this is all new to me! ’ ’ 

Nikka relented at once. 

“My fault,” he apologized, slightly shamefaced. “This 
Gypsy complex I told you about plays funny tricks with 
me. But—” and his grin duplicated Wasso Mikali’s— 
“My uncle’s precise answer to your first question was that 
he would consider ‘the spittle of his sister’s son ample pay¬ 
ment for whatever he could do.’ He meant it, too.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 

W ASSO MIKALI was a very wise man. He 
questioned Nikka closely concerning our situa¬ 
tion, and this was his verdict: 

“When you fight with thieves you must use thieves’ 
tricks. You did right to come to me. Now I will secure 
fitting garments for you, my sister’s son, and for your 
Amerikansky friend, Jakka. For him also I will brew a 
dye of walnut bark and chestnut leaves that will make him 
as dark as our people, so that men will not turn and stare 
at him on the road. 

“After that I think we had best go away from this 
place as soon as possible. You have traveled rapidly and 
shaken off your enemies’ pursuit. It is well to take every 
advantage of an opportunity. Moreover, we must go 
across the Rhodopes to the place where the tribe have hid¬ 
den some horses we got from a Roumanian boyar. We 
will collect the horses, together with some of my young 
men who can handle a knife, and go on to Stamboul. All 
men go to Stamboul, and who will notice a Tzigane band ? ’ ’ 
‘ ‘ But it was not my thought that you should abandon the 
affairs of the tribe, and come and fight with me,” remon¬ 
strated Nikka. 

“Are you not the son of my sister?” rejoined the old 
Gypsy. “If you had not elected to go to Buda with your 
violin would you not be chief of the band? Do I not 
stand in your place? Well, then, light of my eyes, we 
will do for you all that we may. ’ ’ 

And he produced a battered silver tobacco box, and 
rolled himself a cigarette, sitting back on his haunches with 

128 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 


129 


the lithe grace of a cat. Nikka flung rue a proud glance 
as he translated the pledge. 

“It’s all right,” I admitted with due humility. “And 
I was all wrong, but I didn’t know the Middle Ages were 
still with us.” 

Nikka laughingly repeated my remark, and his uncle’s 
twinkling eyes and mocking smile conveyed his retort be¬ 
fore it was translated: 

“Say to my young friend Jakka that if a tribe cannot 
stand by their own then these days are worse than the 
old times.” 

With that he left us, and Nikka and I secured another 
hour’s sleep. When he returned he was accompanied by 
a younger edition of himself, who carried two bundles 
which were disclosed as complete suits of Tzigane dress. 
He, himself, carried a pot of warm, brown liquid, and he 
proceeded to apply the stain to me with a small paint¬ 
brush. Hair, mustache, face and body were darkened to 
a mellow brown. The stuff dried quickly, and I was soon 
able to pull on the strange garments, which Nikka showed 
me how to adjust and fasten. 

I could not help laughing at my reflection in the mirror 
of the cheap French bureau de toilette. The tight trousers, 
the short jacket and the big turban increased my height, 
and the gaudy colors of turban and waist-sash gave me 
a bizarre appearance that was startlingly unfamiliar. I 
felt uncomfortable, as though I had dressed for a fancy- 
dress ball, and overdone the part. But there was none 
of this effect in Nikka’s get-up. With the donning of 
his Gypsy costume he discarded his last visible link with 
the West. He looked the Gypsy, the Oriental, a kingly 
vagabond. 

“You belong,” I said. “But I feel like an imposter.” 

“You’ll grow used to it,” he answered, folding in the 
ends of his sash. “Did they give you a knife?” I ex¬ 
hibited the horn-handled, eight-inch blade, with its sheath 
hooked to a leather belt that encircled my waist beneath 


130 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


the sash. “Good! Got your automatic and spare clips?” 

“And these clothes?” 

I pointed to the civilized garments we had discarded. 

“Kostabidjian will send them on to Constantinople in 
a few days.” He sighed. “Personally, Jack, I don’t care 
if I never wear them again. I can earn a thousand dollars 
an hour with my fiddle, but what’s it worth compared 
with this? Rawhide on your feet that flexes with your 
soles; clothing that covers you, but doesn’t bind; and 
the open road ahead! Civilization is a fraud, Jack. I 
was a fool ever to quit the Gypsy life.” 

“Well, you’re hack in it again,” I replied, “and per¬ 
haps you’ll be feeling you were a fool to return to it. I 
know I feel like a fool. Let’s go.” 

It was still dark when we left the house. Kostabidjian 
and his servant were awaiting us in the courtyard. They 
had saddled two horses, and a mule was loaded with bulky 
packs, food, and blankets, tarpaulins and several cooking 
utensils. The Armenian kept himself in the background. 
He seemed in deadly fear of Wasso Mikali, who treated 
him as though he was a cur to be kicked into the gutter 
if he interfered. And indeed, there was something singu¬ 
larly imposing about the old Tzigane, who strode around 
with the air of one used to taking as he desired and giving 
as he pleased. 

But just as we were leaving, the dumb servant having 
swung open the outer door, Kostabidjian mustered suf¬ 
ficient courage to press to Nikka’s side. 

“Everything was satisfactory?” he inquired timidly. 
“I have served—” 

“Well enough,” returned Nikka, swinging into the sad¬ 
dle of one of the horses, “except that you talk too much. 
Guard your tongue if you would keep it. Your servant 
there—” 

He shrugged significantly. Even by the starlight I 
could see the pallor that blanched the Armenian’s face. 
He took the threat in sober earnest. 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 


131 


“You shall have no cause to blame! All shall be as 
you wish. I will remit the charges for the last distribu¬ 
tion. Take your horse, Monseigneur, both horses—the 
mule! Take all!” 

Nikka gave him a single look, and he subsided. 

“ Heidi, Jakka!” called Wasso Mikali. 

Mount, Jack,” added Nikka. “The other horse is for 
you. We must hasten. My uncle does not like to be seen 
entering or leaving the town.” 

We rode out in single-file, first Wasso Mikali, then Nikka, 
then myself, last the young Tzigane, leading the pack- 
mule. The Gypsies sat a pace that made the horses trot to 
keep up wi'th them, a long, slack-kneed shamble, ungainly 
in appearance, but tremendously effective. By sunrise we 
had left the town behind the first mountain-ridge, and were 
heading north towards the waste of mountains that fringed 
the Bulgarian frontier. Hour after hour we plodded 
along. More than once I suggested a rest, for I knew 
our escorts had been afoot all night. But they would not 
hear of it. Neither would they consent to sharing the 
horses with us turn-about, and in this Nikka upheld them. 

“Our feet are soft,” he pointed out. “We could never 
maintain such a speed, and it is best to put as long a dis¬ 
tance as possible between us and Seres, lest our trailers 
should pick up the scent.” 

During the early part of the day we passed frequent 
villages, melancholy collections of hovels that had been 
scorched by the awful visitation of wars the Balkans had 
known for a decade. But in the afternoon we departed 
from the main road, and struck off across the hills. Oc¬ 
casionally we saw farmhouses or sheepfolds, but when 
night came we made camp in a lonely ravine with the stars 
for roof. There was not a light on the horizon, not even 
the barking of dogs to indicate a human habitation. 

The next day it was practically the same. The trail 
we followed was a mere trace that sometimes disappeared. 
Toward evening we entered a vast forest, and finally halted 


132 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


on the banks of a stream where a campfire blazed. Against 
the flames showed gaunt, turbanned figures. 

“Are these our friends?” I asked. 

“They are Pomaks,” said Nikka. 

He spat contemptuously. 

“What—” 

1 ‘ Moslems! Swine! ’ ’ 

While Wasso Mikali and the young Tzigane, whose 
name was Sacha, made the fire under a bowlder, Nikka and 
I led our tired animals down to the stream to drink. 
Several of the Pomaks, dirty, shifty-eyed fellows in the 
same gaudy raiment that the Tziganes affected, lounged up 
to us. One of them stepped in Nikka’s path, and Nikka 
promptly kicked him. The man turned like a flash, his 
knife out, and Nikka dropped the bridle he was holding, 
and closed with him. Two of the Pomaks jumped for me, 
knives wheeling. 

I did what I had done in the fight in the Gunroom, hit 
out with my fists. The first man I knocked into the water, 
and the second yelled for help, circling me cautiously the 
while. Nikka, after one click of blades, stabbed his man 
in the shoulder, and we stood back to back, half a dozen 
Pomaks pelting up from their fire. 

“Wait,” said Nikka, as I drew my automatic. 

There was a scurry in, the shadows, and Wasso Mikali 
thrust his way into the group surrounding us. He said 
nothing, but stood there where they could see him in the 
firelight, and they muttered together and slunk away, the 
man Nikka had wounded clutching his bloody arm. 

“What is your uncle? A justice of the peace?” I in¬ 
quired facetiously. 

“He is Wasso Mikali,” answered Nikka, wiping his 
knife-blade on the grass. “Now I feel better, Jack. It 
is still the same. The Pomak curs crawl to heel when the 
Gypsy speaks. I wondered if it could be just as in my 
boyhood, after all that has happened in the world.” 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 


133 


“If yon ask me,” I returned, “I don’t believe anything 
has happened in this world of yours.” 

“Much has happened. But the Gypsy is always the 
same—and so likewise, it seems, is the Pomak. God, bul 
it felt good to kick that pig!” 

I regarded my friend with a recurrence of that amaze¬ 
ment which he had stirred in me several times before. 
The quiet, self-contained musician, the artist, the efficient 
subaltern of the Foreign Legion, the cultured man-about- 
town had been replaced by an arrogant forest princeling, 
savagely contemptuous of all but his own kind. 

The Pomaks gave us a wide birth, and early as we were 
afoot in the morning, they were off before us; but we heard 
from them again. We were threading a forest defile, 
where the pine-trees grew thick to the cliff edges, when 
we heard a shout overhead, I looked up at a stocky man in 
a brown uniform, with a round fur cap, emblazoned with 
a rampant lion. He held a rifle in his hands. 

“A Bulgarian forester,” muttered Nikka. 

Wasso Mikali climbed up to the forester’s perch, and 
held a brief conversation with him, at the conclusion of 
which he dug something bright out of his sash and dropped 
it in the forester’s hand. Then he slid down into the 
ravine again, and we resumed our journey. The Pomaks 
had complained to the forester that we were smuggling 
rose-water essence, but he readily admitted that we were 
going the wrong way to be handling such a traffic. The 
lefa piece in his hand was to salve his conscience for not 
reporting the stabbing of the Pomak by Nikka. 

As we progressed that day the mountains became wilder 
and more barren. Once we saw a lumber-camp on the 
lower slope of a ridge we traversed. Again, in the early 
afternoon, I saw what I took to be a castle perched atop 
of a huge crag miles away across a tumbled mass of 
peaks. But Nikka explained that it was one of those 
fortified monasteries which kept the fires of learning alight 



134 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


during the gloomy centuries when the Turk’s rule ran as 
far as the Danube. 

The path we followed was eccentric in the extreme. In 
fact, there was no path. We climbed a succession of gul¬ 
lies and ravines opening out of one another, and at dusk 
emerged upon a sheltered valley, buried deep between 
precipitous slopes draped in a virgin covering of conifers, 
chestnut and beech. A little rivulet foamed down the mid¬ 
dle, dammed at the foot by a crude barrier of rocks. 
Horses and mules and a few sheep and goats grazed on 
the banks. Against the mountain-wall on either side were 
built a number of rough log-shelters, part houses, part 
caves. Children, naked for the most part, played about. 
Women were washing in the brook or tending several open 
fires. A dozen men were lying or sitting on the ground. 

“They don’t seem surprised to see us,” I commented to 
Nikka, whose brooding eyes were drinking in the picture. 

“They know we must be friends,” he answered. “Else 
the lookouts down the path would have signaled them we 
were coming—and we should not have come,” he added 
with a flitting smile. 

“Do you know this place?” 

“As well as—how shall I put it?—As well as Hugh 
knows Castle Chesby. No, I was not born here. My 
mother lay on the floor-boards of a caravan-cart in the 
Bukowina. My father was looking for likely ponies to 
trade with Bulgarian officers. But they brought me back 
here, and here I grew to boyhood. Do you see that first 
hovel on this bank? That was where I was taught to 
fiddle. And there—” 

Wasso Mikali, striding in front of us, raised his voice 
in a great shout, and the men by the houses jumped to 
their feet and crowded toward us. The old Gypsy added 
something in which Nikka’s name was repeated two or 
three times, and they cried out in astonishment. In the 
next moment they were swarming around us, and sinewy 
hands were clasping ours, rows of white teeth were gleam- 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 


135 


ing in welcoming smiles, and Nikka was being greeted with 
a heart-warming mixture of affection and respect. 

Once they discovered I could not talk their language 
they let me alone, but Nikka they plied with questions un¬ 
til the women summoned us to the fires for the evening meal. 
Their attitude toward him was extraordinary. He was one 
of themselves—several were his cousins, most of them were 
related to him in some remote degree of consanguinity; he 
had lived amongst them for years. Yet to them, as to 
the rest of the world, he was also the great master, the 
violinist who could charm multitudes, upon whose bounty, 
too, they and others like them had been sustained in 
periods of want. 

While the women served us with stew and bread, Nikka 
introduced me to them, and they promptly manifested a 
naive interest in my person and career. They all called 
me Jakka. They were amazed to learn that I made my 
living by drawing plans of houses for people. Who, they 
inquired with frank disbelief, needed to have somebody 
draw for him the plan of his house? It was absurd. 
You simply took logs and boards or bricks and stone, if 
you were in a city, and you put them together. They even 
insisted upon dragging me away from the fire to the near¬ 
est house to illustrate what they meant. They were de¬ 
termined to convince me how superfluous was my pro¬ 
fession. 

I, in my turn, was surprised by the idyllic security of 
this retired valley, and I asked them, through Nikka, if it 
Had never been penetrated even in wartime. No, they re¬ 
plied, only once a party of Franks in pot-hats—by which, 
it seemed, they meant Germans—had come upon it by 
accident, and of the Franks not one had escaped. Of 
course, occasional attempts had been made to drive them 
out by other outlaw bands; but none had ever succeeded, 
in consequence of the vigilance of their watch and the 
tortuous approach through a network of defiles. 

Their community persisted in defiance of civilization, an 


136 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


anomalous relic of the stone age, of nomad barbarism; 
and they assured me that here and there all over the Bal¬ 
kans other similar Gypsy communities still held out, in 
spite of the havoc of destruction wrought by the War. 

We remained in the valley for one day, just long enough 
for Wasso Mikali to pick the six men he intended to take 
with him, select horseflesh for ostensible trading purposes, 
and made the necessary arrangements for leaving the tribe 
so long without his guidance. It interested me that he ap¬ 
pointed as sub-chief his wife, a wrinkled old beldame, who 
boasted a complete mouthful of yellowed teeth and rolled 
cigarettes with one hand. And it was significant of the 
conditions under which they lived that we stole away by 
twilight, so that our exit might not be observed by chance 
spies of rival bands, who would thus learn of the reduction 
of their garrison. 

Two days’ journey to the east carried us into the color¬ 
ful stream of traffic on a main-traveled highway. Cara¬ 
vans of pack-ponies jingled along. Bands of itinerant 
Gypsies like ourselves; camel trains, endless processions 
of ox-carts, and very rarely, an automobile or a fiacre, 
moved in both direction. Monks from the mountain mon¬ 
asteries looked askance at Pomak and Tzigane. The Bal¬ 
kan races in their varied garb jangled and wrangled by. 
But not too close to the Greek frontier we swerved into 
a byway, and gave the custom houses a safe margin. 

After that it was the same story for more than a week. 
True, when we abandoned the mountains and dipped into 
the rolling plains of Thrace, we left behind us the trap¬ 
pings of barbarism. But the air we breathed and the 
scenes that unrolled before us belonged to the Orient. 
We had occasional minor adventures, fights with keepers 
of roadside khans, disputes with other parties and attempts 
to steal our horses. But Wasso Mikali was a prince of 
the road. He met stealth with guile, force with nerve. 
He was never defeated. 

Two hundred and fifty miles we traveled, south and 


THE ROAD TO STAMBOUL 


137 


east, and at last there came a day when we passed the 
Tchataldya barrier, and from a hillock caught a glimpse 
of a skyline of towers and floating domes and soaring 
minarets and beyond them to the right a hint of blue that 
was the meeting-place of the Bosphorus and the Marmora. 

“It looks like a fairy city!” I exclaimed. 

“It will stink in your nostrils,” replied Nikka curtly. 
“It is Stamboul—the last stand of the Turk.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 

U NTIL we crossed its very threshold the spell of 
the city held us. Not even the noisome belt 
of Russian refugee camps, and tawdry villas and 
the unkempt tombs of the Hills of the Dead could shat¬ 
ter the illusion of that splendid skyline. The nearer we 
approached, the more impressive it became. The long gray 
line of the old Byzantine walls, the uneven lift of the 
roofs staggering up and down its seven hills, the swelling 
domes of mosque and basilica, the slender beauty of count¬ 
less minarets, the faultless contour of cypress groves and 
the far blue gleam of the Golden Horn and the Marmora, 
with the dim background of the Asiatic hills, all combined 
to mold a picture of piercing loveliness. 

But when we passed through the echoing arch of the 
Adrianople Gate the spell w T as broken. Crazy houses top 
pled over the filth of the streets; a dense mass of un¬ 
washed humans eddied to and fro; squalor beggaring de¬ 
scription leered from the steep lanes and alleys that 
branched off from the main streets. A hundred races 
swarmed about us, vying with one another in wretched¬ 
ness and misery. Dogs and flies fought in the gutters with 
children and old people. Beggars whined for baksheesh. 
Food venders yelled their cries and haw T ked their unsani¬ 
tary wares. Every kind of clothing appeared, from greasy 
European dress to the quaint peasant costumes of south¬ 
eastern Europe and Anatolia and all the countries east¬ 
wards to the Hindoo Koosh. 

It was like one’s fancies of the Arabian Nights, and yet 

unlike them. For here was no lavishness of Oriental dis- 

138 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 


139 


play, no exotic magnificance, only suffering and want and 
hunger and disease and smells and a dreadful ugliness 
that was spiritual as well as physical. It w r as as if 'a 
gigantic, cancerous sore, festering and gangrened through 
the centuries, had eaten away the vitality of what had once 
been the richest city in the world. And back and forth in 
that swarm of humanity’s dregs wandered men of the 
civilization which had prospered outside the pale of Islam, 
French and British officers, bluejackets, poilus, tommies 
and an occasional tourist, clinging to a smirking guide. 

Nikka, riding beside me, viewed the spectacle with cyni¬ 
cal detachment. 

“Seven hundred years ago,” he said, “this was incom¬ 
parably the stateliest, most powerful city in Christendom. 
It w r as the center of an Empire that w T as still able to stand 
alone, although it had borne the burden of resisting the 
Moslem attacks on the Western world for more than five 
hundred years. It enshrined all that was best and most 
worthy of the ancient Greek and Roman culture. It had 
a million inhabitants. It had public services, schools, posts, 
police, drains, water supply. Life was safe, commercial 
independence and prosperity assured—which was more than 
could be said for any other community, East or West.” 

“And the Turks made it what it is!” I exclaimed, as 
Wasso Mikali, leading our little procession, turned off the 
main street we had been following into one of the stink¬ 
ing, littered lanes that twisted down into shadowy re¬ 
gions of corruption. 

“Not the Turks! The Turks only finished what others 
had begun. No, the beginning of what you see around 
you was made by Hugh’s ancestor and his brother knights 
of the Fourth Crusade, who, instead of fulfilling their 
vows to journey to the Holy Land, voyaged to Constanti¬ 
nople and overpowered the feeble Emperor of that day, 
and then sacked and wrecked the city. It was never the 
same afterward. It never recovered its strength. And 
when the Crusades finally impelled the concentration of 


140 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


the Moslem power, it became only a question of time before 
the city must fall. Had it not been for those walls we 
just passed, it would have fallen a century before it did.. 
In fact, it fell then mainly because there were not enough 
men to hold the defenses.” 

“What you say is interesting,” I said. “For after all, 
we are coming to-day on Hugh’s behalf for pretty much 
the same object as lured his ancestor. We are hunting 
the treasure of the city.” 

“But we shall do no harm to any one by taking the 
treasure,” returned Nikka. “What use would it be to 
these people around us? Would they share it? Never! 
It would be employed for the pleasures of their masters. 
The only way to redeem Constantinople is to repopulate.” 

We plunged deeper and deeper into the dark byways, 
sometimes traversing streets so narrow that pedestrians 
were compelled to squeeze themselves flat against the house- 
walls to permit us to pass. In the twilight it was difficult 
to see far ahead, and at every corner Wasso Mikali raised 
his voice in a shout of warning. But at last we rode forth 
into a wider thoroughfare and stopped opposite the gate 
of a huge, fortress-like building, w T hose windowless stone 
walls towered above the surrounding housetops. 

“The Khan of the Georgians,” explained Nikka. “Here 
we shall be swallowed. up in an army of travelers. No 
one would think of looking for us in such a place.” 

Wasso Mikali made the necessary payment to the por¬ 
ter at the gate, and w T e rode between the ponderous, steel- 
bound doors into a courtyard such as you find in a bar¬ 
racks. Around it rose three tiers of galleries, arched in 
stone, and below them were a succession of stables fronted 
by sheds and penthouses. Piles of goods lay everywhere, 
in the courtyard and on the galleries. Horses, mules, oxen 
and camels neighed, brayed, bellowed and grunted. Men 
talked in knots on the mucky cobbles of the court, squatted 
in every gallery or leaned over the railings shouting to 
each other. Women sat on bales and nursed their infants. 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 


141 


Children ran about with the usual ability of children to 
escape sudden death in dangerous places. It sounded like 
a boiler factory and an insane asylum holding a jubilee 
convention. 

But Wasso Mikali and his young men pushed through the 
confusion with the same bored air I would have worn in 
bucking the subway rusih at Grand Central. They ap¬ 
propriated a corner of a stable, and put up the horses, un¬ 
cinched the packs and climbed a flight of stone stairs to 
the second floor, where the old Gypsy rented two cubicles, 
each lighted by a grated window two feet square and con¬ 
taining nothing except some foul straw, from a custodian 
who looked like the conception of Noah entertained by the 
artists of the subscription editions of the Holy Bible. 

Nikka had relapsed so thoroughly to Gypsyism that he 
professed not to be suspicious of the straw, but at my in- 
sistance he procured a worn broom from Father Noah and 
we swept out the room which had been set aside for Wasso 
Mikali and ourselves. The six retainers in Wasso’s train 
were given the next cubicle, and they promptly piled into 
it the straw which we had banished from our room, so 
I doubt whether our labors produced any benefit, as they 
spent as much time with us as in their own quarters. 

Such food as we did not have with us we bought from 
a general store conducted in an angle of the courtyard, 
and the cooking was done over a brazier, which, with the 
necessary charcoal, we rented from Father Noah. When 
night fell, and the cooking fires blazed out all over the 
courtyard and in the galleries it was a sight worth coming 
to Constantinople to see. There was an acrid reek of dung 
in the air, the sweaty smell of human bodies, the pungent 
aroma of the charcoal, and an endless babble of voices in 
a score of tongues and dialects. 

Afterward some men on our gallery played on bagpipes. 
From the courtyard came the twanging of simple stringed 
instruments, and nasal voices lifted in interminable mel¬ 
ancholy songs. A woman who was no better than she 


142 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


should have been danced in the light of two flaring kero¬ 
sene torches by the gate until she won the attention of a 
bandy-legged Turcoman rug-merchant. A thief attempted 
to pick the purse of a fat Persian. A Kurdish horse- 
dealer tried to knife a snarling Greek. And gradually the 
khan’s inmates sought their sleep. Most of them lay in 
the courtyard or stables beside their animals and goods 
or else on the galleries. The snores of a score resounded 
into our cubicle. Yet I slept, awakening at intervals of 
the night when a child cried for the breast or a camel broke 
loose and threshed around the courtyard or a party of 
belated travelers stumbled over the sleepers outside our 
door. 

We were astir early in the morning, and before eight 
o’clock Wasso Mikali, Nikka and I left the khan—Wasso 
having given strict injunction to his young men to stick 
to their quarters and discourage any endeavors to make 
them talk—to cross the Golden Horn to the European 
quarter of Pera. This walk was no less fascinating than 
our ride from the Adrianople Gate. It took us through 
the northeastern half of Stamboul, and after we had passed 
the lower bridge of boats, into the comparatively civilized 
conditions of the Galata and Pera areas. 

But to tell the truth, once we had left Stamboul Nikka 
and I thought little of our surroundings. Nikka even relin¬ 
quished some of the wolfish manner which his return to 
Gypsy life had inspired, and we discussed eagerly, and 
not for the first time, the possibility that harm had come 
to Hugh. But our fears were relieved when we came to 
the corner of the street opposite the hotel, for there by the 
entrance stood Hugh and Watkins chatting with Vernon 
King. 

Nikka led the three of us up to the hotel, shambling un¬ 
gracefully and goggling at the Western aspect of the 
building and the people who passed on the sidewalk. 

“Anybody covering them?” he whispered. 

I looked around. On the farther curbstone, smoking and 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 


143 


pretending to be interested in the passers-by, lounged two 
individuals who might have been cut from the same pat¬ 
tern as ourselves; and I indicated them to Nikka as I of¬ 
fered him tobacco from the box I carried Balkan-fashion 
in my waist-sash. 

“All right,” he said, “we must be careful. We’ll 
move up beside Hugh, and when there’s nobody in ear¬ 
shot you say what you have to say, speaking to me.” 

We peered open-mouthed into the lobby, gaped at shop- 
windows and slowly worked to a position close by Hugh 
and Yernon King. I was amused to observe that Watkins 
confined his attention to the two spies across the street, 
whom he favored with a steady, malignant gaze. King, 
too, was immersed in the conversation. Hugh gave us one 
keen glance, obviously because we were Gypsies. But he 
did not recognize us, and indeed, in our gaudy clothes, 
dirty and unshaven, we looked nothing like his memory 
of us. 

“If they don’t come in the next few—” King was say¬ 
ing as we halted close by, staring at a Levantine lady in 
a Parisian frock who was entering a taxi. 

“Better not,” warned Hugh, with a wink toward us. 

‘ ‘ This is one time we fooled you, ’ ’ I remarked, speaking 
in a low tone of voice at Nikka—there was nobody else 
within twenty feet of our groups at the moment. “Jack 
speaking, Hugh. You and Watty follow us. Go around 
the block the other way from us. We’ll pick you up.” 

Nikka had a bright thought as we started off. The Com¬ 
missionaire at the hotel entrance had been watching us 
with suspicion, and Nikka made a pretense of thrusting by 
him into the lobby. The Commissionaire grabbed him 
by the arm, and hustled him on to the sidewalk, and at 
this we all pretended uneasiness and hurried up the street. 
Hugh and Watkins watched us disappear, then said good-by 
to King, and walked down the street. They were round¬ 
ing the corner of the farther side of the block as we en¬ 
tered it, and when we made sure they had seen us, we 


144 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


turned into a cross-street that led between buildings to¬ 
ward Galata and the Golden Horn. 

Hugh’s shadows had a poor time of it after that, and I 
believe we lost them in the maze of crooked lanes in 
Stamboul. At any rate, they were nowhere in sight when 
we dodged into the gateway of the Khan of the Georgians. 
Hugh was bursting to talk, but Nikka motioned to him to 
be silent. The appearance of two Europeans like him¬ 
self and Watkins was bound to attract some attention, and 
we rushed them through the courtyard as rapidly as pos¬ 
sible. Of course, everybody who noticed them at all con¬ 
cluded that they were up to no good, considering the dis¬ 
reputable company they were in. 

So they panted after us up the steep stairs to the second 
gallery, and Wasso Mikali opened the door of our cubicle 
and stood aside until Watkins had entered. Then he 
came in, himself, and locked it and squatted down with 
his back against it. He was as imperturbable as Watkins, 
which is saying a great deal. Watkins surveyed the room 
with cool disfavor, drew his finger through a smudge of 
smoke on the wall and shook his head. 

“Dear, dear, gentlemen,” he said. “They don’t do very 
well for you ’ere, do they, now? A proper queer place, I 
call it. And you ’ave changed, too, if I may say so. 
Mister Jack, sir, you must let me draw you a ’ot tub, and 
I’ll give Mister Nikka a shave.” 

We shouted with laughter. 

“That is supposed to be a disguise, Watty,” exploded 
Hugh. “My word, it’s a good one! You lads had me 
fooled completely. I looked at you just as I’ve looked at 
scores of rascals like you, and King and I went on won¬ 
dering what had become of you. I say, who’s the old 
gent ? ’ ’ 

Nikka introduced his uncle, and Wasso Mikali met Hugh 
with the unstudied courtesy that made it so difficult to re¬ 
member that he knew nothing of what we call manners or 
the gentler aspects of life. 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 


145 


“I wish you’d tell him how much I appreciate his as¬ 
sistance,” said Hugh. “And I shall be very glad to—” 

“Hold on, Hugh,” I interrupted. “Remember, he’s 
Nikka’s uncle. And besides, he’s a king in a small way on 
his own.” 

Hugh turned squarely on Nikka. 

“My mistake, old man,” he said. “I apologize for what 
I didn’t say. But will you please give him my thanks, all 
the same.” 

Wasso Mikali’s bright eyes, eyes that sparkled with 
vitality, took on a humorous gleam. 

“He says,” Nikka translated, chuckling, “that he ap¬ 
preciates your thanks, but he never does anything for 
thanks. He is here because I am interested and there is 
a chance of fighting, and he never loses an opportunity 
to draw his knife, if there is loot to be won or a friend 
to be aided.” 

“He’s a sportsman,” approved Hugh. 

“And there are six more like him in the next room,” 
I added. 

“I say, Nikka, you brought a feudal levy—what?” Hugh 
exclaimed delightedly. “Well, we shall need them. This 
is going to be a tight job, if you ask me.” 

“Is Toutou here?” 

“I think not. So far as we have observed, none of the 
headliners has appeared on the scene, but the underlings 
are very efficient. Vernon King and I have been over 
the ground rather thoroughly. He’s been a priceless help, 
Jack. Don’t know what Watty and I would have done 
without him. He saved us from having to rely on a guide 
to learn the city. And Betty—she’s the most enthusiastic 
worker on our side.” 

“She would be,” I agreed. “But you don’t mean to 
say that you and she have really done any work?” 

“Oh, come, now,” he expostulated. “What do you 
take me for? We have worked a lot. Betty has a motor- 
launch her father chartered so they could run up and 


146 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON - 


down the coast on his archaeological trips, and we used 
that to mark down the house where we think the treasure 
is located.” 

Nikka and I both, forgot our Gypsy stoicism, and hitched 
forward. We were sitting on the floor; Hugh and Wat¬ 
kins, in recognition of their clean clothes were perched 
on two packs. 

‘‘Have you really got a line on the site of the Bucoleon?’ ’ 
asked Nikka. 

“Yes,” said Hugh. “Matter of fact, that was com¬ 
paratively easy, thanks to Yernon King. You see, he 
knows his Constantinople of old; and after consulting with 
some other learned Johnnies out at Robert College and 
several ancient Greeks of the Syllogos, the Historical So¬ 
ciety, you know, he was able to point out quite accurately 
the general site of the Great Palace. When we had gone 
so far, it became a case of picking out the building within 
that area that held our prize. 

“In that we were helped by knowing that it was oc¬ 
cupied by a band of Gypsies, who had lived there a long 
time. The Phanariots, Greeks of the Syllogos, I mean, 
picked out the building like a shot. To verify it, we 
watched it from the street and also from the motor-launch. 
There isn’t any doubt about it. It’s in what they call 
Sokaki Masyeri, a mean little street in a mean quarter that 
skirts the old sea-walls beyond the railroad tracks. 

“This house is built right on the walls. It has a kind of 
battered magnificence, elaborately carven cornices and 
window-moldings, and it rambles over a good bit of 
ground, including a fairish-sized courtyard, just as you 
would expect of the wreck of an old palace. To be sure, 
it’s no more than a small portion of what was the Palace 
of the Bucoleon. As Yernon King pointed out, the man 
who started out to excavate the whole site of the Palace 
would have to embark in the real estate business on a large 
scale and work with steam-dredgers.” 

“And you’re positive about all this?” I insisted. 


THE HOUSE IN SOKAKI MASYERI 


147 


“Oh, lord, yes! There can’t be any mistake, Jack. 
Why, the bird who lives in this house is the king of the 
Stamboul Gypsies, the chief bad man of Constantinople. 
He has a whole tribe of cut-throats at his beck and call. 
Ask anybody here about Beran Tokalji—” 

Wasso Mikali leaped to his feet at sound of that name 
and strode over to us, his hand on his knife. 

“What’s the row?” inquired Hugh as the old Gypsy 
and Nikka engaged in a brisk exchange of sibilant phrases. 

“Our friend has this person Tokalji’s number,” I ex¬ 
plained. “He told us about him. He had heard about 
the treasure and the house.” 

“Then we must be right,” cried Hugh. 

“You’re right enough,” agreed Nikka, while Wasso 
Mikali returned to his place by the door and rolled a 
cigarette. “It seems, also, that this Tokalji is a particular 
enemy of my uncle. He was suggesting a little exterminat¬ 
ing expedition.” 

“That’s the last move to try,” answered Hugh quickly. 
“We’ve got to be very careful. The authorities were 
rather puzzled to account for my continued interest in 
the city, at first. As it is—” 

He turned brick-red to his hair. 

“As it is,” I grinned, “your pursuit of Bet has material 
advantages.” 

“Curse you, Jack,” he retorted disagreeably, “that’s 
not the way to put it. And anyhow, I’m not responsible 
for what damnfool officials think.” 

“You are in luck,” said Nikka with a smile. 

Hugh stood up, hot and exasperated. 

“I didn’t come here to be spoofed by a couple of 
idiotic rotters, ’ ’ he snapped. ‘ ‘ When you find your senses, 
send for me.” 

“Oh, hang on to your temper, Hugh,” I said, dropping 
my hand on his shoulder. “Get back to where we were. 
You said we must play safe. We’ve got six of Nikka’s 
cousins in the next room, first-class knife-handlers, every 


148 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


one of them. With Wasso Mikali and us, that makes 

eleven. ” 

“And Vernon King is twelve,” added Hugh. “He 
wants to be in on the whole business. It appeals to his 
archaeological bump, as well as to his sporting tastes. 
But we can’t have a rough house yet. We don’t know 
the ground well enough. We’ve got to determine where 
the treasure is in that house.” 

“Did you get the copy of the Instructions from Miss 
King?” asked Nikka. 

“Yes, and had her immediately mail it to herself, Poste 
Restante, as we agreed. It’s there now. I don’t need it. 
I found I had memorized it perfectly. No, the next step 
is to get inside that house, by stealth, if possible, by force, 
if every other means fails.” 



CHAPTER XV 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 

"V 7E ought to try to get inside Tokalji’s house as 
/ soon as possible, if Toutou and Helene and 
Y T tlie rest of them are not here yet, ’ ’ said Nikka 
slowly. “Are you sure about that, Hugh?” 

“To the extent that we haven’t seen a sign of them.” 

“They will have been scurrying about our back-trail,” 
I suggested. “Our disappearance must have upset their 
plans.” 

“Probably,” assented Nikka. “Yes, if we are going to 
profit by that trick we must move soon. I don’t believe 
either Jack or I could fool that Cespedes woman. At the 
same time, what Hugh says about the danger of violent 
tactics is very true. We should keep my uncle and his 
men as a reserve. If it ever comes to a cold show-down, 
we are going to need more than ourselves.” 

“King and I have talked it over frequently,” said Hugh. 
“But we haven’t been able to think of a safe way of 
getting inside. Of course, we could run ashore in the 
launch some night, and climb up the courtyard wall that 
fronts on the Bosphorus, but we’d certainly be discovered. ’ ’ 

“It wouldn’t work,” asserted Nikka. “No, to get in 
and have opportunity to look around for the landmarks 
mentioned in the Instructions we must be accepted as 
friends.” 

“It can’t be done,” protested Hugh at once. 

“Oh, yes, it can. Jack and I can do it—with Watkins 
to help us.” 

Watkins started up from the pack upon which he had 

been endeavoring to appear comfortable. 

149 


150 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Oh, now, Mr. Nikka! I never ’eard the like! Your 
ludship, I protest, I do! I wasn’t cut out for a Gypsy. 
Can you see me in such clothes? It’s not decent, your 
ludship, for a man of my years to be going in public 
dressed like a pantomime.” 

“We’re not going to make a Gypsy out of you, Watty,” 
returned Nikka, waving him to silence. “You are going 
to be the innocent victim of two outrageous bandits.” 

“That’s worse,” groaned Watkins. “I’ll do my duty, 
your ludship, and take what comes, but there’s no call 
for all this wild talk, if I may say so, sir, and what does 
it all lead to ? And I’m mortal sure, your ludship, there’s 
bugs in this room. ’Adn’t we better be getting back to 
the ’Otel, sir?” 

“Sit down,” commanded Hugh. “Nobody’s stuck yon 
up yet. What’s your plan, Nikka?” 

“Just this. When we leave here you and Watkins head 
for Tokalji’s house. We’ll follow you at a distance. You 
and Watty must prowl through the street as mysteriously 
as you can, looking up at the house, examining its ap¬ 
proaches, all that sort of thing. Make sure the street is 
empty—” 

“Oh, it’s always empty,” interrupted Hugh. “It’s 
crescent-shaped, with comparatively few houses opening on 
it, a backwater.” 

“That helps. Now, when you get into the street look 
back and you will see us lurking after you. Pretend to 
be scared. Then we’ll go after you, knives out. Run. 
You get away, Hugh, but we catch Watty and throw him 
down— ’ ’ 

“Yes, it ’ad to be me, gentlemen,” sighed Watkins. 

“—empty out his pockets, start to cut his throat—you’d 
better not be wriggling about that time, Watty, or the 
knife might slip—and you raise a yell for the police around 
the corner. We change our minds, kick Watty on his way 
and run back. At the gate of Tokalji’s house we ask for 
admission, claiming we fear pursuit. I think—I am quite 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 


151 


sure—they will let us in. It is a chance we must take. 
They will have seen what we did, and from what you and 
Wasso Mikali tell me, Tokalji considers himself the chief 
of the local criminals. lie will demand a percentage of 
our loot, and let it go at that.” 

“A nice time will be ’ad by all,” commented Watkins. 

“It sounds simple,” I said. “But what about me?” 

“You.are a Frenchman, an ex-Apache and deserter from 
the Salonika troops. Let me do the talking. I know 
Gypsies. If you tell them a bold tale, and carry a high 
bluff, they will take you at your own valuation.” 

“It’s a plan worth trying,” agreed Hugh. “But you 
can’t expect to stay with Tokalji forever.” 

“I know that. Well do the best we can.” 

“Start now?” 

“Wait until afternoon. That will drive your shadows 
insane, and they will be doubling back to the hotel on 
the chance of picking you up again.” 

We spent the balance of the time together hashing over 
our experiences, and horrifying Watkins by revealing to 
him the state of our apparel. Incidentally, we arranged 
to have complete changes of European clothes sent to us 
at the khan, so that if it became necessary we could shift 
roles inside the protecting walls of the great caravanserai. 

When the hour came to leave, Wasso Mikali and his 
young men escorted Hugh and Watkins through the court¬ 
yard, and Nikka and I followed at some distance. The 
Gypsies stopped in the gateway, and we strolled on alone 
after our friends in the direction of the Bosphorus. We 
had walked for upwards of an hour along the narrow 
lanes, up-hill and down-hill, elbowing a passage through 
the sordid stream of life, when from an elevation we 
glimpsed the sheen of water, and Hugh, a hundred feet 
in front of us, tossed his head as if in invitation to press on. 

We accepted the hint, and as they rounded an alley-corner 
into a dingy lane that was over-topped midway by a wall 
of massive Roman construction we were close at their 


152 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


heels. Now the comedy began. Hugh played up in great 
shape. He drew a paper from his pocket, and affected to 
stare along the wall. He counted his steps. He looked 
around him fearfully. He conferred with Watkins, who 
manifested even more uneasiness. It was Watty who 
looked behind them* and spied us, peering .around a 
flair of stonework. It was Watty, too, I am bound to say, 
who undertook to measure the height of the wall by con¬ 
trast with his own stature—at least, he appeared to be 
doing so. Afterwards he denied that he had had any 
thought of this. He was only trying to get as far away as 
possible from us—we “fair gave ’im the creeps.” 

We slunk into the alley in as hangdog a manner as we 
could manage. Watty called Hugh’s attention to us, as we 
thought, with genuine dramatic art. We heard later that 
he remarked: “It ain’t right, your ludship, these carry¬ 
ings-on! I don’t ’old for me own skin, but there’s Mister 
Jack and Mister Nikka little knowing what they’ll be 
getting theirselfs into.” To which Hugh says he replied: 
“Steady on, old Boot-trees! England expects every man 
to take his beating.” 

Anyhow, as Nikka whipped out his knife and ran for 
them, Watty squeaked, and lit off with a considerable 
lead on Hugh. But Hugh wasted no breath. He sprinted 
and lunged into Watkins, knocking him against a house- 
wall, so that we had time to catch up. And as Hugh 
reached the curve of the crescent-shaped street, Nikka 
overhauled Watkins and toppled him over with every ap¬ 
pearance of ruthless brutality. In the next moment I 
added my knife to the picture, and while I menaced the 
poor old chap’s throat, Nikka scientifically emptied his 
pockets and ripped a money-belt from under his clothes. 

“Oh, Mister Nikka, sir,” moaned Watkins. “Not that, 
sir. There wasn’t anything said about me belt, sir. Do 
be careful with that knife, Mister Jack. It’s me throat, 
sir, if I may say so. Not the belt, Mister Nikka! Oh, 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 


153 


dear, sir, whatever will I do about me trousers? Torn me 
apart, you ’ave. Ow!” 

This last as Nikka gave every indication of intending to 
cut his heart out. There came a yell from Hugh around 
the corner, and Nikka bounded to his feet. Between us 
we hoisted Watkins to his, and propelled him from us with 
a couple of really brutal kicks. Collar torn, jacket scruffed 
and trousers unbraced, Watkins scudded for that corner 
like a swallow on the wdng. But we did not wait to watch 
his exit. We took to our own heels, and headed in the 
opposite direction, hesitated at the far corner, and doubled 
back to the closed door that was buried in the high wall 
of Tokalji’s house. 

Nikka banged the thick wood with his knife-hilt. 

“Who knocks?” rumbled a voice. 

“Two who fear the police.” 

A small wicket opened. 

“We want none such here.” And to one within: “Be 
still.” 

“There is something to be divided,” answered Nikka. 

“Where do you come from?” 

“Salonika—and elsewhere.” 

“Tziganes both?” And again to one unseen: “I said 
be still, little devil.” 

“My comrade is a Prank—but he is one of us.” 

A hinge creaked. 

“Enter,” growled the voice. “Quickly.” 

The crack was wide enough for one at a time, and we 
slid through like shadows, the open leaf slamming behind 
us. We stood in a large courtyard. To right and left 
were solid, timeworn buildings, two stories high. In front 
was a broken wall, partially built over by a structure of 
moldy brick, but there was a gap sufficiently large to re¬ 
veal the Bosphorus. The court was cluttered with bales 
of goods and boxes and a number of men and women in 
Gypsy dress who were occupied in staring at us. 


154< THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


But we did not spare any protracted attention for them. 
There were two far more interesting characters close at 
hand. One was a stalwart, black-bearded man, with a 
seamed, wicked face that wore an habitual scowl. The 
other was a girl of perhaps eighteen, whose lissome figure 
set off her ragged dress like a Paquin toilette. She was 
very brown. Her hair was a tumbled heap of midnight, 
and her eyes were great glowing depths of passion. Her 
shapely legs were bare almost to the knee, and her flimsy 
bodice scarcely covered her. But she carried herself with 
the unconsciously regal air that I had noticed in Wasso 
Mikali. 

She regarded me almost with contempt, but her eyes 
fairly devoured Nikka. 

“This is the one,” she cried, “he ran like that stallion 
we had from the Arab of Nejd, and you should have seen 
him strip the old Frank. He would have had the other 
one too if his friend had been as swift. Heh, foster- 
father, he has the makings of a great thief! ” 1 

But the man only glowered at us, his hand on the hilt 
of one of the long knives in his waist-sash. 

“Be still, girl! You jabber like a crow.” 

“And you snarl like a wolf, Old One,” she retorted. 
“I say I saw them.” 

“Somewhat of it I saw myself,” he admitted, “but is 
that a reason for taking strangers in from the street? 
Who knows them?” 

“Nobody,” answered Nikka promptly. “Only our 
knives can speak for us.” 

“Heh, many a man has a knife that talks!” The fel¬ 
low’s grin was fiendish. “A talking knife! It says three 
words.” He flashed his own in the air. “Haugh!” It 
whistled down in a deadly thrust. “ Sss-sssrr-kk! And 
it goes home. Drip-drip! And the tale is told. That is 
all a knife can say.” 

And he sheathed his own, still grinning. 

l Nikka afterwards translated these conversations for me. 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 


155 


‘‘ That is why a sure knife is valuable, ’ 9 returned Nikka. 
‘‘A pistol, now. That shouts aloud. But a knife only 
whispers, and if a knife knows but three words, how many 
of its masters can have that said of them?” 

“You talk more than most, it seems,” leered the bearded 
man. He was quick of wit. 

“I have said what I have said,” stated Nikka, folding 
his arms. “My comrade and I are new to Stamboul. We 
have heard of Beran Tokalji in many camps. In the win¬ 
ter we were in Paris, the great city of the Pranks, and 
there, too, men spoke of Tokalji. A great thief, they said, 
and one w T ho treated his people well.” 

“How do you know that I am Tokalji?” demanded the 
bearded man, plainly flattered by Nikka’s speech. 

Of course, Nikka did not know him, but he was quick to 
seize the opportunity and make the most of it. 

“I have often heard you described around the fires. It 
was enough to see the way you handle a knife. ‘As sure 
as the knife of Tokalji’ is the saying all along the road 
from Salonika to Buda and beyond into the Prank coun¬ 
tries. ’ ’ 

“If you knew me and sought my help, was it wise to 
rob in front of my door?” countered Tokalji, but the scowl 
on his face was supplanted by a smirk. 

Nikka affected embarrassment. 

“Why, as to that, voivode, there is something to be said,” 
he agreed. “But we saw the Franks, and their looks spelt 
gold, and—what would you? ’Twas a chance. Also, we 
thought the police would not dare to touch us here.” 

“That may be true,” Tokalji agreed in his turn. “But 
there are Frank soldiers in Pera, and how if they came 
here to seize you?” 

“But the Franks did not see us enter,” said Nikka. 

The girl thrust herself scornfully to the fore. 

“Gabble, gabble, gabble,” she mocked. “Are we old 
wives that we mouth over everything ? These men robbed, 
they fled unseen, they have their loot. Foster-father, you 


156 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


are not so keen as you once were. Something was said of 
a division/’ 

A greedy light dawned in Tokalji’s eyes. 

“Yes, yes,” he insisted, “that is right. So you said, 
my lad, and if you would have shelter you must pay for 
it.” 

“So will I.” 

Nikka flung the money-belt, some loose change and a 
watch down on the ground, and squatted beside them. The 
rest of us did the same. The girl seized the belt, and 
emptied the compartments, one by one. 

“English gold,” she exclaimed. “This was worth tak¬ 
ing. You are a man of judgment, friend—What is your 
name?” 

“I am called Giorgi Bordu. My friend is named Jakka 
in the Tzigane camps. The name he bore in his own coun¬ 
try is buried under a killing.” 

She looked at me more respectfully. 

“Oh-ho, so he has killed, has he?” 

“Yes, maiden. He is not a Gypsy, so with the knife—” 
Nikka shrugged his shoulders in deprecation—“but with 
his hands, and the pistol, now! You should see him when 
there is quick work to be done. ’ ’ 

She began shifting the money into three equal piles. 

“Did he have any papers, that Frank?” asked Tokalji 
abruptly. 

“All that he had is there,” replied Nikka. 

“Humph!” The Gypsy thought for a moment. “It 
was strange that you attacked those two, Giorgi Bordu. I 
do not want them sneaking around here. They are after 
something that I want myself.” 

Nikka, sitting back on his heels, produced his tobacco- 
box and rolled a cigarette. 

“Perhaps a strange thief and his friend might be of 
aid to you,” he suggested. 

“Perhaps they might. I don’t know—You are smart 
fellows, I can see that. And I need men like you. But 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 


157 


I am not alone in this. There are others, do you see? I 
must consult them. Still, you should be better than the 
two I am using just now.” 

“Are they Tziganes?” inquired Nikka politely. 

“Of a sort. But they have lived too long with the 
Franks. They are not so ready as they once were, and I 
find they do not bring me the information I require. I 
make no promises, but suppose I—” 

The girl screamed, and I twisted on my haunches to see 
that Nikka had seized her wrist. 

“Let me go, pig,” she hissed, and reached for her knife 
with her free hand; but Nikka caught that, too. 

Tokalji stared at them both unpleasantly. 

“What is this?” he barked. “Do you assail my people 
already before you are accepted a member of my tribe?” 

“I am protecting your purse and mine from this little 
thief,” answered Nikka calmly. “While we talked, she 
stole.” 

“He lies,” spat the girl. “There is the money.” 

She stretched a slim brown foot toward the three little 
piles on the sunken flagstones. Tokalji drew his knife. 

“If you take liberties with me I will carve out your 
bowels,” he warned savagely. 

Nikka’s reply was to rake open the girl’s bodice with 
his hooked fingers. A stream of coins tinkled on the pave¬ 
ment. He released her, and she leaped back out of his 
reach, staring down at him with a puzzled look in her 
eyes, entirely regardless of her nakedness. 

Tokalji burst out laughing, and resheathed his knife. 

“She is a rare one. You are the first to catch her so.” 

“And he will be the last!” she said in a low, tense voice. 

A wave of color suffused her from breast to forehead. 
But it was from rage, not modesty. She ripped a dagger 
from her waist. 

“Now, we shall see if you can fight or only boast,” 
she rasped, crouching forward. 

Nikka shook his head. 


158 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“I don’t fight with women,” he said. 

“You’d better fight with her,” said Tokalji philosoph¬ 
ically, “or she will kill you. She has a swifter blade than 
any man of my tribe.” 

Nikka sank back on his haunches. 

“I will not draw m 3 ' knife,” he said. 

“Then you will die,” she hissed, and charged. 

I rose, and made to intervene, but Tokalji drew his 
knife again and came between us. 

“Let her have her chance, man,” he ordered in his 
snarling voice, and before I could pass him she struck. 

But her knife was stayed in mid air. Nikka’s arm 
darted out, his fingers clutched her wrist, there was a 
wrench—and the knife clattered beside the stolen coins. 
He forced her down by his side, picked up the knife and 
handed it to her. Then turned his back, and resumed his 
conversation with Tokalji. 

“You w T ere speaking of information you required,” he 
said. 

Tokalji eyed him in amazement. 

“Do you wear the death-shirt that you care so little 
for death?” he asked. 

“Death comes when it is ready,” returned Nikka im¬ 
passively. “Is a man to fear a maiden?” 

“Many men fear that maiden,” retorted Tokalji grimly. 
“Heh, you are a fighter. We will accept your comrade 
for whatever he is. You I know I can use. Kara!” 

The girl looked at him sullenly. 

“Take the strangers to Mother Kathene. Tell her to 
bed them with the young men.” 

She stood up, her half-clad Dryad’s body shining a 
golden bronze hue. 

“I am not afraid of you, Giorgi Bordu,” she said, 
humbly fearless. “You turned aside my knife with your 
bare hand, and my life is yours. Will you take it?” 

As she spoke, she pulled aside what scanty rags re¬ 
mained of her bodice, and exposed her breast for his 


WATKINS PLAYS THE GOAT 


159 


knife. Nikka regarded her curiously, and a light I had 
never seen there before gleamed momentarily in his eyes. 

“Your life is your own, maiden,” he answered. “But 
remember I steal from others. Others do not steal from 
me.” 

“That is as it should be,” she said. “You are a 
voivode, a chief. I knew you were no ordinary man when 
I saw you hunt down the old Frank in the street. I said 
to myself: ‘That man is a great thief. He must be the 
king of a tribe.’ To-night,” she added royally, “I will 
pay ransom for my life. I will dance for you.” 

Tokalji emitted a peculiar gurgling sound which was 
intended for laughter. 

“Hell, Giorgi Bordu, have you by chance been a bear- 
tamer?” he asked as he swept up his pile of gold and 
turned away. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE RED STONE 



IKKA and I pouched our shares of the loot we 
had brought in, Nikka appropriating to him¬ 
self Watkins’s Birmingham silver watch. The 
Gypsy girl never took her eyes off him as she absently re¬ 
fastened her tattered bodice. 

“We are ready,” said Nikka. 

Her face flowered in an instantaneous smile. 

“It is well, Giorgi Bordu. Come with me.” 

She led us across the courtyard to the building which 
fronted it on the left and was extended by the brick ad¬ 
dition I have spoken of to shut in partially the rear of 
the court which abutted on the Bosphorus. A man was 
leaning over in the doorway, strapping up a bundle, and 
Kara planted her bare foot in the middle of his back, 
sending him sprawling. He was up in a flash, with his 
knife out and his face distorted with anger; but when he 
saw who had kicked him, the anger turned to smiles. He 
swung the bundle on his shoulder and swaggered off. 
And Kara looked at Nikka, with the expectant manner of 
a child who has performed a trick and expects to be ap¬ 
plauded for it. 

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. But Nikka only mo¬ 
tioned impatiently to the doorway. She caught her lip 
in a pout, dug her toes in the dust and affected not to 
understand him; but Nikka took one stride, with arm 
extended, and she danced away, all smiles again. Ap¬ 
parently, she didn’t mind as long as she made him look 
at her. 

Inside the door was a big, stone-paved hall. There 

160 




THE RED STONE 


161 


were traces of carvings on the capitals of the pillars and 
a spaciousness that spoke of ancient glories. The stairs 
that led to the upper story were railed with marble and 
grooved deep by the tread of countless feet. But the 
place reeked with the squalor of a tenement. Three old 
women were huddled in front of a fire that blazed on an 
enormous hearth, and strings of onions and garlic hung 
from hooks in the ceiling. All around were scattered 
dirty piles of blankets and personal belongings. 

Kara skipped across to the fireplace, and tapped the 
oldest of the three women on the shoulder. 

“Hi, Mother Kathene,” she called loudly. “Here are 
two strangers Beran has taken into the tribe.” 

The three hags tottered to their feet, and peered at us 
with bleared eyes. 

“Strangers?” whined Mother Kathene. “Why stran¬ 
gers in the tribe? Haven’t we enough fine young men to 
stab and steal for the chief? Heh-heh! I don’t like 
strangers.” 

“Strangers are bad luck,” pronounced a second bel¬ 
dame, whose name was Zitzi. 

“Bad luck,” echoed the third, who was called Lilli. 
“And I suppose we’ll have to cook and scrub for the 
rascals, too.” 

Kara pinched her with a viciousness that made the poor 
old thing squeal. 

“Don’t talk of scrubbing to me!” she sneered. “You 
wouldn’t touch water to a foul pot, let alone a man’s 
clothes. You’d drown if you were rained on. Bah, 
Mother Lilli, you are lucky to have a chief like Beran, 
who gives the old ones work to do and shelter and food 
for the end of their days, instead of driving them out 
to seek the bounty of the Roumis and Franks. And you 
are luckier still to have a great thief, like Giorgi Bordu 
to cook for. He is the greatest thief in the world. Why, 
he even caught me when I would have stolen from 
him!” 


162 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“If he steals well, he won’t be a fighter,” mumbled 
Mother Kathene. ‘ ‘ What about -the other one ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He took my knife from me without drawing his own, ’ ’ 
flared Kara. “No other man in the tribe could do that. 
The other? Oh, he is a Frank.” 

“More bad luck,” wailed old Zitzi. “Tzigane folk 
who live with Franks are always spoiled. They worship 
the Christian goddess or they grow clumsy or they lose 
their courage or they take the spotted sickness.” 

Kara clouted her on the head. 

“Have done with it,” she commanded imperiously. 
“Where are Giorgi and Jakka to lie?” 

“Where they choose,” returned Zitzi sourly. 

Kara waved her hand about the chamber. 

“Here or above, whichever you say,” she announced 
to us. “These are the quarters of the young men.” 

“May we look above?” asked Nikka, anxious to seize 
this opportunity to explore. 

Her answer was to dance up the stairs—she seldom 
walked or did anything slowly. 

We followed her. There was a central corridor, and 
from it opened various rooms, some of them crammed 
with all manner of goods, valuable rugs, bric-a-brac, 
cloths, and frequently, the veriest junk. 

“Beran stores plunder here, as you can see,” she said. 
“The other rooms are empty. The young men prefer to 
sleep all together where they can w r atch one another.” 

Nikka realized that if we set up a different standard 
of conduct from that observed by our brother bachelors 
we would prejudice our position in this strange com¬ 
munity. 

“What is good enough for them is good enough for us,” 
he decided. “But is there no more to see? I thought 
the building ran around by the water.” 

“There is no connection,” she replied. “The building 
over the water is just a storehouse. We are a great tribe, 
and Beran has agents everywhere. Never a day goes by 


THE RED STONE 


163 


that plunder does not come in, and we store it until there 
is opportunity to dispose of it.” 

‘Hie is a master thief,” agreed Nikka. “So we had 
heard. But where do you live, maiden?” 

Her face glowed rosily with satisfaction at this first 
evidence of his interest in herself. 

“Across the court,” she answered. “Come and you 
shall see.” 

We descended the stairs into the big hall on the ground- 
floor, where the three hags had crouched again before the 
fire, and crossed the courtyard to the building opposite on 
the right of the entrance. It was long and graceful in 
appearance, beautifully built of a hard white marble, 
which had been coated with dirt for centuries. The cor¬ 
nices were elaborately sculptured in a conventional de¬ 
sign; the window openings were carved and set with a 
light mastery that disguised their bulk. 

The door was supported by simple pillars of wonderful 
green stone that contrived to show its color through the 
accumulation of filth which tried to mask it. How such 
pillars could have escaped the antiquary I do not know. 
They were as handsome as anything in St. Sophia. But 
then, as we were to discover, the whole abode of Beran 
Tokalji constituted an amazing shrine of Byzantine art, 
perhaps the most remarkable non-ecclesiastical remnant 
in the city. 

But of all this I thought little at the time. What in¬ 
terested me more than anything was that immediately 
above the door on a panel let into the wall was carved a 
representation of a bull, head lowered and in act to charge. 
I looked at Nikka, and his eyes met mine with a warning 
glance to say nothing. It was a good thing that my 
knowledge of Gypsy dialect was sketchy, for had I been 
able to, I believe I should have exclaimed over this first 
clue and attempted to probe our guide’s knowledge of it. 

Kara never gave the sculpture a glance; it meant noth¬ 
ing to her. She beckoned us inside the door. Here again 


164 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


was a spacious, pillared hall, triple-aisled like a small 
church, its battered pavement showing traces here and 
there of the gorgeous mosaics which once had floored it. 
Whatever decorations adorned its walls w T ere obscured by 
the incrustations of centuries of misuse. The pillars were 
of different stones, many of them semi-precious, and occa¬ 
sionally glinting pink or red or green or yellow through 
their drab coats of dirt and soot. At one end was an apse¬ 
like space large enough to hold a dinner table or a throne, 
and on the curving wall I fancied I could discern faint 
traces of one of those mosaic portraits with which the By¬ 
zantine artists loved to adorn their buildings. 

But this superb chamber was littered with the odds and 
ends of a people accustomed to dwell in tents. I suppose 
Tokalji’s tribe, by all accounts we had, had been living 
here for some hundreds of years, yet they never adapted 
themselves to urban conditions. Generation after genera¬ 
tion looked upon this wonderful fragment of one of the 
world’s stateliest palaces as no more than the four walls 
and a roof required to keep out rain and cold. The win¬ 
dows were covered by wooden shutters. Cleaning was re¬ 
sorted to only when the atmosphere became unsupportable 
for the salted nostrils of the tribe. 

“These are the quarters of the married people,” ex¬ 
plained Kara. “Beran sleeps here.” She pointed to a 
pallet in the recess that I likened to an apse. ‘ 1 The others 
upstairs. ’ ’ 

“And you?” asked Nikka. 

“Oh, I live where I choose, but most of all I like my 
garden.” 

“Your garden? Where is there a garden?” 

“I will show you, Giorgi Bordu.” 

At the end of the hall opposite the apse there was a worn 
stone stair. The shallow steps descended straight to an 
opening, barred by a rude pine door. As we passed it, I 
noted idly holes in the stone lintels where formerly had 
been cemented the bolts of heavy metal hinges. A gate, 


THE RED STONE 


165 


perhaps. Beyond the door was a pleasant room in which 
several women sewed, and children scrabbled in the dirt 
on the floor. The sunlight poured in from windows fac¬ 
ing us. I saw trees tossing, heard the splash of water. 

Kara crossed the room, with a nod to the women, and 
opened another door. This led to a pillared portico, and 
I gasped in wonder at the sheer loveliness of this morsel 
of imperial Byzantium, buried in the frowsy lanes of 
Stamboul. There was a tangled stretch of garden, weed- 
grown, of course, and two jade-green cedars that lifted 
their heads in isolated majesty. Around the four sides 
ran the portico, although in two places the pillars had col¬ 
lapsed and the wreckage of the roof strewed the ground. 
But the gem of the place was the fountain in the center, a 
lion rearing back on his hind-legs with a broken spear in 
his chest. From his open mouth poured a stream of 
water that fell into a stone-rimmed pool. 

“That is where I swim,” volunteered Kara. “It is 
not far, but I can beat you across it. Would you like me 
to try?” 

And with that pagan innocence which characterized her, 
she started to drop skirt and bodice. 

“Another time,” said Nikka, laughing, and with a single 
look to see if he was in earnest in refusing such sport, she 
promptly refastened her clothes. “This is lower than the 
rest of the house, isn’t it?” 

She assented, and it was then that I recovered from the 
bewilderment inspired by the unexpected charm of the 
picture, and realized for the first time what it meant. The 
bull above the entrance door, the hall, the stair, the marks 
of heavy hinges at its foot where a gate had hung, the room 
where the women sat, an atrium, in the old Roman archi¬ 
tecture ; the garden—by Jove, even the cedars!—the Garden 
of the Cedars; and the Fountain of the Lion! It was 
exactly as the first Hugh had described it in the missing 
half of the Instructions which we had found. 

I dug my fingers into Nikka’s arm. 


166 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Yes, yes,” he said quietly in English. “I see it, too. 
But do not let yourself seem excited.” 

Involuntarily I repeated to myself the concluding sen¬ 
tences of the Instructions which we had all memorized: 

“From the center of the Fountain take four paces west 
toward the wall of the atrium. Then walk three paces 
north. Underfoot is a red stone an ell square.” 

The center of the Fountain—where could that be? The 
pool stretched sidewise to us, as we stood in front of the 
atrium. Plainly, then, it was intended to mean from the 
center of the pedestal on which the lion was perched. I 
stepped out from the portico, measured with my eye the 
distance from the pedestal west toward the wall of the 
atrium, and walked north on the paved walk which rimmed 
the central grass-plot. 

The flagging here, while naturally worn by the passage 
of time, was as even as though it had been laid yesterday. 
It was composed of blocks of red and brown granite in a 
checker-board pattern, but they seemed to be only a foot 
square. It was not until I passed the center of the foun¬ 
tain that I discovered that at regular intervals a larger 
stone was inserted in the design. And sure enough, I 
found a red one about three and a half paces, as I roughly 
made it, in a northerly line from the point I had calculated 
as four paces west of the center of the fountain. 

Kara had no eyes for any one save Nikka, and I ven¬ 
tured to stamp my sandaled heel on the stone as I trod 
over it. It gave back no different sound from those on 
either side of it, but when my first disappointment had 
passed, I told myself that this was no more than could 
have been expected. Had it sounded hollow, surely, some 
person in the course of seven centuries would have noticed 
it, and whether possessed of knowledge of the treasure or 
not, must have had sufficient enterprise to attempt to find 
what it concealed. 

I walked on around the garden, determined to take ad¬ 
vantage of this extraordinary opportunity to survey the 


THE RED STONE 


167 


ground. But there was nothing else to see. On one side 
the porticos fringed a blank wall, evidently belonging to 
the adjoining property. Vernon King afterwards said 
that at some period this group of buildings of the Palace 
of the Bucoleon had been cut up into separate structures 
and built together in blocks. On the side toward the 
Bosphorus a wing of the building we had traversed inter¬ 
vened. Through the frequent windows I saw Gypsy men 
and women and a few children lounging or occupied with 
their household duties or playing. One of the men was 
teaching a boy to pick pockets. I watched him for some 
time with interest. 

I finally abandoned my investigations because I gath¬ 
ered from the tones of their voices that Nikka was hav¬ 
ing an argument with Kara. When I came up to them, 
Nikka was offering her Watkins’s watch; but she dashed 
it to the pavement, burst into tears and fled back the way 
we had come. 

“What have you been doing, Lothario?” I demanded in 
French. 

Nikka looked very unhappy. 

“She wanted me to kiss her. I—I offered her that 
watch, in the first place. To make up for showing her up 
the way I did; that was to impress Tokalji, of course. And 
then I thought she had been pretty decent to us since.” 

“I daresay she has been,” I agreed. “For a purpose, 
to be sure.” 

“A purpose?” 

“Well, she asked you for something, didn’t she?” I 
gibed. 

“Oh, that!” Nikka’s discomfort was heart-warming. 
“She doesn’t know any better, Jack. I’ve seen her kind 
before—at least, none as bright as she or quite as pretty; 
but the same kind of untamed wild-cats. We Gypsies spoil 
our women if they have any spirit. And she—Well, you 
could see for yourself. She has been brought up in this 
atmosphere. Crime is an art with her. She looks upon 


168 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


a clever robbery as you do on a good job of architecture. 
She has lived with men ever since she left her mother’s 
arms. She doesn’t know what it means to be refused any-' 
thing. She—she’s all right, you know.” 

“I know she’s the prettiest savage creature I’ve ever 
seen,” I returned drily. “Since she is the first, however, 
that may not mean much. You seem to be very anxious to 
explain her savagery, my friend. Why didn’t you kiss 
her ?” 

Nikka picked up the watch and examined the broken 
crystal. 

“I don’t think we’d better stay here,” he answered 
vaguely. “Women’s quarters, and all that sort of thing. 
Hullo, here’s Tokalji, now!” 

The Gypsy chief stalked out of the atrium. 

4 ‘What have you been doing to the girl?” he growled. 

“I wouldn’t kiss her,” said Nikka with a sudden grin. 

Tokalji’s bearded face was cracked by a burst of gar¬ 
goyle laughter. 

“You are a wise one ! I said so! I know men, I, Beran 
Tokalji! But hark you,” and his tone took on an edge, 
“be careful with her. She is all I have, and I give her 
to no man I do not know. You come in out of the street, 
whoever you are. Prove yourself, and I can make much 
of you. But until you prove yourself, you and this Frank 
jackal with you, you walk carefully and jump when you 
hear the lash.” 

“Is she your daughter?” asked Nikka. 

“Never mind who she is. What are you doing here?” 

“She was showing us the fountain.” 

“That is all right. But the young men stay out of this 
house. I want no troubles over women in the tribe. Re¬ 
member that, you two.” 



CHAPTER XVII 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 

T OKALJI herded ns through the atrium and up 
the stairs into the large chamber with the apse 
where he, himself, slept. 

“Sit,” he ordered roughly, motioning to several stools. 
“I have something to say.” 

He went to a chest in the corner, and drew from it a 
bottle of rakia, raw Oriental brandy. I looked about for 
a cup as he handed it to Nikka, but my comrade, better 
versed in the customs of the country, deftly wiped the 
bottle’s neck with his coat-sleeve, hoisted it for a long 
dram, wiped the neck again and passed it to me. I imi¬ 
tated him as well as I could, although a passing acquaint¬ 
ance with Cognac in my days as a student at the Beaux 
Arts and also in the A. E. F. did not save me from a chok¬ 
ing sensation as the fiery liquid burned my gullet. Tokalji 
regarded me with contempt when I handed it to him, tilted 
the bottle bottom-up and drained the equivalent of a water- 
glass, with a smack of gusto. 

“There,” he said, setting the bottle on the floor. “We’ll 
talk better wet than dry—although I will say, Giorgi, your 
friend is no great hand at the bottle. I hope he’s a bet¬ 
ter thief.” 

“Only try him,” said Nikka eagerly. 

“Humph, I may! But to be frank with you, my lad, 
I don’t want you two for a thieving job. It’s something 
more difficult, and the reward will be in proportion.” 

Nikka permitted his fingers to caress the hilt of his 
knife. 

“We should enjoy a good killing,” he hinted. 

“No, no, Giorgi. That will come in time, but whatever 

169 


170 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


else you do, you must keep your knife sheathed in this 
business. As it happens, the men we are after are worth 
more to us alive than dead.” 

4 ‘Whatever you say, voivode,” answered Nikka equably. 
“But what about your own men? They’re a likely-look¬ 
ing lot.” 

“Yes, but not so many of them have the gifts I re¬ 
quire in this service,” retorted Tokalji, lifting the bottle 
once more. “They are clever thieves and fighters, but 
what I require now is men who can follow and spy. My 
best men at that work have failed to produce anything 
worth while in two weeks, and moreover, they have become 
known to our enemies. I must have new men, and abler 
men.” 

He bent his brows in a ferocious grimace. 

“If you succeed, you are my friends. You shall have 
rich pickings. But if you fail you had better leave Stam- 
boul.” 

Nikka dropped his hand again on his knife. 

“Why threaten?” he asked coolly. 

Tokalji glared at him with the blankly savage menace 
of an old gorilla. 

“Beware how you defy Beran Tokalji in his own den,” 
he snarled. “Well, let it pass. It shows you have spirit, 
but do not tempt me too far, Giorgi. When I am aroused 
I must taste blood.” 

Nikka rose. 

“I am a free man,” he answered casually. “So is my 
comrade, Jakka. We sell our knives and our fingers to 
the best bidder, and if we don’t like the treatment we 
say so and leave.” 

Tokalji regarded him uneasily. 

“Here,” he said gruffly, offering the bottle, “drink 
again and think better of it, man. No harm is done by 
plain talk. That’s right. Sit. I get along with those 
who don’t fear me too much. You shall not be sorry 
you strayed in here—but you must deal honestly with me. 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 171 

I am buying your wits, and I expect something for my 
money.’ ’ 

So far it is only we who have paid,” retorted Nikka. 
“How much are we to get?” 

“How much? It depends upon how much we win. 
There will be hundreds of gold pieces for every man if 
it goes right.” 

“If what goes right?” 

Tokalji hitched his stool closer to us, and glanced around. 

See you, Giorgi—and you, too, Jakka, if you can un¬ 
derstand any of this talk,—the two Franks you robbed 
live at the hotel in Pera, where all the rich Franks stay.” 

“We saw it this morning,” assented Nikka. 

“These two Franks are an English lord and his servant. 
They seek something which I also seek and with them in 
their venture are two others, an Amerikansky, Nash, and 
one named Zaranko, who, they say, is a fiddler and was 
one of our people in his youth.” 

“I have heard of that one,” said Nikka. 

“Would you know his face?” 

“I think I would.” 

“Good! Above everything else we wish to learn what 
has become of the Americansky and the fiddler and when 
they are to arrive. Also, they are two more Franks at 
the hotel, a man named King and his daughter. They, I 
think, are Amerikansky like Nash. We do not understand 
how they come to be in this business. If they are really 
in it, perhaps it would be worth while to kidnap the girl. 
We might hold her to blackmail her friends.” 

“But what do they seek that you also seek?” asked 
Nikka. 

“If you breathe it to a soul, I will cut out your heart 
with my own knife, I, Beran Tokalji,” replied the Gypsy 
chief by way of preface. ‘ ‘ They have the secret to a treas¬ 
ure. ’ 9 

“What?” exclaimed Nikka with great pretense of as¬ 
tonishment. “Here in Stamboul?” 


172 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


fr 

4 ‘Close by, my lad, close by. They know its location, 
but if we are smart we should be able to take it from 
them as soon as they reveal their knowledge. It is for 
us to find out their secret or wring it from them, by tor¬ 
ture, if necessary.” 

“This is a job worth doing,” cried Nikka, jumping up. 
“ Jakka and I will be diligent. We will start now to trail 
the Franks.” 

But Tokalji barred the door to him. 

“Not so fast, not so fast,” he answered with his gar¬ 
goyle laughter. “The job has waited for you some time. 
It can wait a few hours longer. I prefer to keep you 
under my wing for the night, until we become better ac¬ 
quainted. You look like the right sort of fellow, Giorgi, 
and your friend is not so poor a man for a Frank; but 
after all, as I said to you, you came in to me from the 
street this afternoon, and all I know about you is that you 
are a good thief. 

“It is not enough. I must know more. And for an¬ 
other thing, it will help you to await the return of the 
two I have out watching these Franks in Pera. They have 
not found much, but they can tell you something of what 
the Franks do and how they spend their time. So make 
yourselves comfortable. You shall eat heartily, and this 
evening Kara will dance in the courtyard as she promised 
you. That is worth waiting for, Giorgi. If I were a 
young fellow, I would rather do that than lurk the cor¬ 
ners of Pera. Heh-heh!” 

He stepped aside, and waved us permission to go; and 
we walked through the courtyard to the crumbling wall 
which rimmed the Bosphorus at one point, its base a rub¬ 
ble-heap, its battlements in fragments, its platform over¬ 
grown with weeds. From its top we could look down on 
the margin of beach, loaded with bowlders, and the ruins 
of what had been a jetty enclosing a little harbor for the 
Imperial pleasure galleys. 

“It would not be difficult to climb up here,” I said 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 


173 


idly, pointing to the gaps between the stones, and the 
sloping piles of bowlders. “Does he suspect us, Nikka?” 

“No, that is only his Gypsy caution. He thinks we are 
too good to be true. He needed what we seem to be—and 
behold, we arrive! He has waited long. He feels he can 
wait a little longer.” 

“I’m afraid he may wait a little too long for us,” I an¬ 
swered. 

“There’s a chance,” Nikka admitted after a moment’s 
reflection. “But we’ve got to risk it. In the meantime 
you must let me do all the talking. I’ll tell everybody 
you are a sulky devil, a killer whose deeds haunt him. 
They’ll leave you alone. Gypsies respect temperamental 
criminals. But come along, we mustn’t stay by ourselves. 
We’ll be suspectel of considering ourselves too highly or 
else having something to conceal. We can’t afford any sus¬ 
picions or even a dislike.” 

So we strolled over to the young men’s quarters, and 
while I wrapped myself in a gloomy atmosphere that I 
considered was typical of a temperamental killer, Nikka 
swapped anecdotes of crime with the others who drifted in 
and out. I looked for Kara, but she was nowhere in 
view. After Nikka had once established my character, 
the Gypsies gave me a wide berth, and I had nothing to 
do but smoke and appear murderous. And I must say I 
got sick of the part. I was the first man up when Mother 
Kathene swung the stew-pot out of the chimney and old 
Zitzi and Lilli began to distribute tin plates and cups in 
an irregular circle on the floor. It was poor food, but 
plenty, and anyway, it broke the monotony of being an 
abandoned criminal. 

With the passing of the twilight the young men moved to 
the courtyard. In the middle of the open space was a 
black smirch on the paving, and here they built a fire of 
driftwood collected from the beach under the wall. It 
was a tribute to the immemorial habits of their race. Even 
here in the crowded city they must close the day with a 


174 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


discussion of its events around a tribal blaze, exactly as 
they would have done upon the road, exactly as thousands 
of other Gypsy tribes were doing at that very moment 
on the slopes of the Caucasus, in the recesses of the Rilo 
Dagh, in the pine forests of the Carpathians, on the alien 
flanks of the Appalachians far across the sea. 

A buzz of talk arose. The primitive Gypsy fiddles and 
guitars began to twang softly. Nikka was the center of 
a gossiping group. Men and women from the opposite 
side of the court joined the circle. Young girls, with the 
lithe grace of the Gypsy, as unselfconscious as ani¬ 
mals, sifted through the ranks of the bachelors. Beran 
Tokalji, himself, a cigarette drooping sardonically from 
the corner of his mouth, stalked out and sat down with 
Nikka. 

In the changing shadows beyond the range of the fire¬ 
light children dodged and played unhindered by their 
elders. High overhead the stars shone like fireflies under 
a purple vault. And from the spreading mass of Stam- 
boul echoed a gentle hum, the hum of a giant hive, a 
myriad voices talking, singing, praying, laughing, shout¬ 
ing, cursing, screaming. None of the discordant night 
noises of the West. No whistle-blasts, no shrieking of flat 
wheels on tortured rails, no honking of motor-horns, no 
clamor of machinery. Only the drone of the hive. 

A man raised his voice in a song, and the exultantly 
melancholy pasan to beauty blended with the other sounds 
like a skillfully woven thread in a tapestry. It died away 
so gradually as to seem as if it had never been. The fiddles 
sighed to silence in a burst of expiring passion. 

Nobody spoke for several moments. Music was bred in 
the bone of these wild folk. It held them as could noth¬ 
ing else. 

“What of Giorgi Bordu?” said Tokalji presently. 
“Does he sing or play or dance 

Nikka reached out his hand almost eagerly. 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 


175 


“I will play, if you wish. I vowed not to touch the fid¬ 
dle again, but—” 

His fingers closed lovingly on the crude instrument, and 
he cuddled it under his chin. His bow swept the strings 
in a torrent of arpeggios. He stood up and strode into the 
firelight as if upon a stage. And then he began to play, 
plaintively, at first, in a minor key. There were the noises 
of the night, a crackling fire, animals stirring, the cry of a 
child, awakening. The music brightened, quickened, be¬ 
came joyous. You felt the rays of the sun, and comfort 
of work. Men and women danced and sang. A harsh note 
intervened. There was a quarrel. Anger yelled from the 
strings. Turmoil ensued. Paster and faster went the 
tune. And then peace, and the measure became slower, 
almost stately. 

The caravan had passed on. A forest encompassed it. 
Boughs clashed overhead, birds twittered and sang. Cool 
shadows fell athwart the path. But the way grew steep. 
The music told of the rocks and the slippery mud where 
a stream had overflowed, of the steady climb, of the en¬ 
durance required. The caravan reached the height. A 
chill wind blew, but fair before them stretched a pleas¬ 
ant land, and the descent was easy to the warm, brown 
road that wound across the plain. Sunset and camp again, 
firelight, the moon overhead, talk of love, the sensuous move¬ 
ment of a dance. Then, languorous and slow, the coming 
of sleep. 

I did not know it, but I was listening to the composi¬ 
tion of Zaranko’s Gypsy Sonata Op. 27, which some day, 
I suppose, will be as famous as the Revolutionary Etude or 
the Hungarian Rhapsody or Beethoven’s dream of the 
moonlight. But no audience will ever hear it with greater 
appreciation than those ragged Gypsies who sat around the 
fire in the dirty courtyard of the house in Sokaki Masyeri. 
As Nikka resumed his place in the outer circle, only the 
whispering of the flames broke the stillness. The very 


176 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


children were frozen on their knees, drunk with the ecstasy 
of melody. 

“Heh!” called Beran Tokalji, first to shake off the spell. 
“I do not wonder you vowed not to touch the fiddle, if 
you like the open road. With that bow of your’s, Giorgi 
Bordu, you could wring hundreds of gold pieces from the 
Franks. You play like the Redcoats in the khans in 
Buda and Bucharest. Heh-heh! I have heard Niketu and 
Stoyan Mirko and Karaji, and they were not to be compared 
with you. It is seldom the bravest men have the touch of 
the fiddler.” 

Others spoke up readily in praise or asked questions as 
to Nikka’s opinion on moot points of harmony and the 
desirable methods of interpreting various Gipsy songs. 
They would have had him play again, but he refused. I 
think he was emotionally exhausted. 

“We have no fiddler to match with you,” remarked 
Tokalji, “and the gaida 1 and the flute are not fit for real 
music. But our maidens can dance. Heh, girls, come 
out, shy ones! Let the strangers view your grace.” 

They giggled amongst themselves, and swayed into a 
group that was as spontaneously instinct with rhythm as 
an old Greek temple frieze. But suddenly they split apart. 

“Kara will dance,” they cried. “Let Kara dance for 
the strangers.” 

And Kara floated into the circle of firelight like a spirit 
of the forest. She still wore only the scanty madder-red 
skirt and torn bodice. The cloud of her hair tumbled be¬ 
low her waist. Her tiny naked feet barely touched the 
ground. Slowly she whirled, and the Gipsy fiddles caught 
her time. A man with cymbals clashed an accompaniment. 
A flute whistled soprano. She increased the tempo; she 
varied her steps. She was a flower shrinking beneath the 
grass. She was a dove pursued by a falcon. She was 
a maiden deserted by her lover. She was a fairy hover¬ 
ing above the world. 

1 Bagpipes. 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 


177 


We who watched her were breathless with the joy of the 
spectacle, and when she sank to the ground in a little pile 
of rags and hair as the music ended, I thought she must 
be worn out. But she bounded up at once, breathing regu¬ 
larly, radiating vitality. 

“Now I will dance the Knife Dance!” she exclaimed. 
“Who will dance with me?” And before any could an¬ 
swer her, she seized a blazing stick from the fire, and ran 
around the circle waving it overhead until she came to 
where Nikka sat. “Ho, Giorgi Bordu, you who do not 
fear the knife, will you dance the Knife Dance with me?” 

Every eye in the circle was fixed on Nikka, for, although 
I did not know it then, to have refused her invitation would 
have been a deadly insult, equivalent to a declaration of 
enmity toward her family and tribe. Similarly, accept¬ 
ance of it amounted to an admission that he considered her 
favorably as a wife, without definitely committing him to 
matrimony. 

Nikka did not hesitate. He stepped to her side. She 
slipped one arm around his waist, and with the other 
swung her torch in air until it showered sparks over the 
circle. 

“Hi!” she cried. 

“Hi!” echoed Nikka. 

And they pranced around the fire while the music com¬ 
menced an air so fiercely wild that it made the blood 
tingle to listen to it. Then she flung down her torch, and 
tore free from Nikka’s arm. He followed her. She eluded 
him. Round and round they tore, keeping step the while. 
Now she accepted him, now she rejected him. At last 
he turned from her, arms folded, contemptuously unmoved. 
She wooed him with rhythmic ardor. He denied her. 
She drew her knife; he drew his. Eyes glaring, lips 
pinched, they circled one another, feinting, striking, leap¬ 
ing, posturing. 

“Click!” The blades struck together. 

“Hi! Hi!” they cried. 


178 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Click! Clack! Click!’ ? went the knife-blades. 

“Ho! Ho!” they shouted. 

The game was to see how near you could come without 
cutting. To avoid hurt the dancers required quick eyes 
and agile bodies. The blades flashed like meteors in the 
shifting light, wheeling and slashing and stabbing. In 
the beginning Kara forced the pace. Nikka retired before 
her, rather than risk doing her harm. But slowly he as¬ 
sumed the mastery. His knife was always at her throat, 
and active as she was, he refused to be shaken off. She 
fended desperately, panting now, bright-eyed and flushed. 
But he pressed her. Their blades clashed, he gave his a 
twist and hers dropped from her hand. 

He seized her, forcing her back across his knee, knife 
up-raised to strike, while the fiddles clutched at one’s 
nerves and the cymbals clanged with wicked glee. The 
scene—Nikka’s tall figure, with the poised knife, and the 
lithe, slender form he held, expressing in every curve and 
line its tempestuous, untamed soul—brought to my memory 
the song I had heard him sing one morning in the music- 
room at Chesby: 

And best of all, I shall hear 
The wild, mad Tzigane songs, 

Cruel and gay and lustful, 

Like fiddles and clanging gongs. 

And in the glare of the campfires 
I shall see the Tziganes dance— 

Women with lithe, round bodies, 

Men straight as a heiduck’s lance. 

And perhaps a wild brown maiden 
Will seek me— 

Crash! boomed a knock on the street-door. And rap- 
rap-rap ! it was repeated. Crash! again. 

The music stopped. Nikka released his partner, and 


THE DANCE IN THE COURTYARD 


179 


Kara stooped quickly and snatched up her knife, tossing 
the hair out of her eyes, heedless as usual of the rags that 
slipped off her shoulders. 

Men looked at each other uncertainly. Hands crept to 
waist-sashes. 

“Heh!” said Tokalji. “Who can it be in such a hurry 
at this hour ? ’ ’ 

Crash! The door resounded under the battering of a 
pistol-butt. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 

T HE women and children—all save Kara—with¬ 
drew into the shadows. The men gathered to¬ 
gether. Tokalji crossed to the entrance. 

“Less noise there!” he shouted threateningly. “This 
is a peaceful house.” 

But his manner changed the moment he opened the 
wicket. What he said we could not hear, but we saw him 
quickly turn the lock and throw back a leaf of the door, 
salaaming low as he stepped aside. Six men burst in, four 
of them in European clothes, and Nikka and I exchanged 
a glance of apprehension as we recognized the broad shoul¬ 
ders of their leader and heard his snarling voice. 

Toutou LaFitte had arrived. With him were Hilyer, 
Serge Vassilievich and Plilmi Bey. The two who brought 
up the rear, somewhat sulky and fearful, were the spies we 
had seen in front of the Pera Palace that morning. 

‘ 1 Can I trust nobody to fulfill my orders ? ’ ’ whined Tou¬ 
tou, striding toward the fire. “I tell you to spare no 
efforts—and I come to find you singing and dancing around 
a fire ! Is that working ? Is that carrying out our treaty ? 
But all are the same! My best people fail me.” 

His green eyes shone evilly; his hands writhed with sup¬ 
pressed ferocity. Tokalji, having refastened the door, 
followed him across the courtyard. The Gypsy looked un¬ 
comfortable, but showed no fear. 

“What could we have done that we have not done?” 
he retorted. “Was it our fault that you lost track of the 
two missing ones? As for the English lord and his serv¬ 
ant, my two men that I see with you have shadowed them 
day and night.” 


180 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 


181 


“And lost them to-day, as they admit,” snarled Toutou. 
“Lost them for a whole day! Who knows what has been 
accomplished in that time?” 

“You are right there,” agreed Tokalji coolly, “and I 
have just picked two new men to take their places. Zlacho 
and Petko are good enough for ordinary thievery, but this 
job seems to be above them.” 

“That is well,” said Toutou, partly mollified. “There 
must be a change in our methods or we shall fail in this 
coup. I decided to hasten on to Constantinople with my 
colleagues because I was sure the two who have escaped us 
must come here sooner or later, and whenever they come 
we shall find them. But I cannot do everything. It is 
for you to follow their trails.” 

“Never fear! We shall,” replied Tokalji. “My new 
men start out at once. One of them is a Frank like your¬ 
self; the other is a Tzigane.” 

“Ha, let me see that Frank,” exclaimed Toutou. “I 
know many of the Franks who live with the Tzig¬ 
anes.” 

“Step out, Giorgi Bordu and Jakka,” called Tokalji. 

Nikka sunk his fingers in my arm in a warning grip, 
and we stepped forth from the group of Tziganes clus¬ 
tered in front of the fire. There was at least a chance that 
we should not be identified—hut its value was demonstrated 
the instant the firelight splashed over Nikka’s aquiline 
face and tense, febrile body. 

“Surely, I have seen that lean fellow before,” piped 
Hilmi Bey, pointing at Nikka. 

11 1 saw them standing near the Frank lord and his serv¬ 
ant in Pera this morning,” said one of the spies. 

“What of that?” shouted Tokalji angrily. “It is true 
they followed the Franks—which was more than you could 
do, Petko—and robbed them.” 

“No, the Franks followed them,” protested Zlacho, the 
other spy. 

“You lie, you dog!” bellowed Tokalji. “You think to 


182 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


discredit them because they will do the work you bungled. ’ ’ 

Vassilievich pushed in front of the newcomers. 

“Is it my imagination,” he inquired softly, “or does 
the stocky one bear a resemblance to the Americansky, 
Nash ! ” 

“By jove, I think you’re right!” exclaimed Hilyer, 
speaking for the first time. 

“Be ready,” hissed Nikka from the corner of his mouth, 
without shifting his eyes from our enemies. 

His right hand was thrust into his waist-sash. 

“I do not like this business,” rasped Toutou, pulling a 
knife from inside his vest. “Somebody shall be tortured 
until he tells the truth.” 

I felt a pressure between Nikka and myself, and Kara’s 
voice whispered: 

“Run, you fools! To the House of the Married!” 

Nikka’s pistol flashed blue in the firelight. 

“Shoot, Jack!” he cried. 

A ruddy flame jetted from his muzzle, and the spy Petko 
dropped dead. Toutou LaFitte pushed Zlacho in the line 
of fire before himself, and dived into the encircling shadows 
as Zlacho crumpled up with a broken leg. Tokalji, Hilyer, 
Vassilievich and Hilmi scattered. I swung on my heel 
and shot twice over the group of Gypsies by the fire. I 
could not bring myself to shoot at them, for there were 
women and children close by. Then a bullet whistled past 
my ear, and Toutou’s voice whined: 

“No shooting! Use your knives! Take them alive!” 

I had a fleeting glimpse of Kara, running at me with her 
knife raised. 

“There are only two!” roared Tokalji. “Pull them 
down! ’ ’ 

“Run!” I heard Nikka shout. 

We pelted for the house on our left, the House of the 
Married, as Kara had called it. Despite Toutou’s warning, 
a second bullet spattered on the stones between Nikka and 
me; but we were poor marks in the half-light, with people 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 


183 


running in every direction, many of them uncertain who 
were friends or foes. I turned as I ran, and fired into the 
ground in front of Kara, who was the closest of our pur¬ 
suers ; but she refused to be frightened and actually 
plunged through the doorway on our heels. 

“I’ll tend to her,’’ panted Nikka. “You fasten the 
door, Jack.” 

There was a wooden bar, which I dropped into place, and 
the next minute the framework groaned under a weight 
of bodies. 

“No shooting,” yelled Tokalji. “You fools, you’ll have 
the Frank police in here!” 

“One hundred Napoleons a head for them,” barked 
Toutou. “Dead or alive.” 

The uproar redoubled, and then Tokalji evidently in¬ 
vaded the throng hammering at the door. 

“Leave that door alone,” he snapped. “You’re wast¬ 
ing time. Go through the windows.” 

“Come on, Nikka,” I urged. “We can’t guard every 
point. We must run for it.” 

“But what about this?” demanded Nikka whimsically. 
He jerked his pistol muzzle at Kara sitting demurely on 
the floor, playing with her knife. “If we show our backs, 
she’ll knife us or open the door—and besides, where shall 
we go?” 

‘ ‘ Tie her up, ’ ’ I answered impatiently. 

Kara, who, of course, could not understand a word of 
what we were saying, laughed with glee. 

“Do you think I am your enemy?” she demanded in the 
Tzigane dialect. ‘ ‘ I tell you I am your friend. See ! ’ ’ 

And she tossed her knife across the room. 

“I came with you to help you, Giorgi Bordu.” 

“My name is Nikka Zaranko,” he answered shortly. 

“What matters your name?” She leaped up and flung 
her arms around his neck. “It is you I love—not your 
name.” 

Nikka eyed me sheepishly across her shoulder. 


184 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“See you, little one/’ lie remonstrated, “this is no 'time 
for talking of love. We may be dead in five minutes.’’ 

“Oh, no,” she said, releasing him, nevertheless, “you 
shall be off and away. I, Kara—” and it was ridiculous 
how she strutted in the manner of Tokalji, himself—“will 
set you free—because I love you.” 

“But I am the enemy of your tribe—your enemy,” re¬ 
plied Nikka. “You do not realize what you do.” 

“I care not who you are,” she insisted. “I love you. 
I care that for the tribe ! ’ ’ 

She snapped her fingers. 

“But come,” she added as a crash sounded outside. 
“They have broken in a window. Follow me.” 

She led us into an adjoining room, where in the thick¬ 
ness of the wall a narrow stairway corkscrewed upward, 
debouching on the upper floor. Here was a long hall, 
with rooms opening off it, their windows usually on the 
inner courtyard, the Garden of the Cedars of the First 
Hugh’s Instructions. She turned to the right, and en¬ 
tered one of the rooms. A ladder leaned against the wall 
below a trap-door in the roof. In a corner stood a bed¬ 
stead, which she stripped of its clothes, revealing the cords 
that served for springs. 

“Cut those with your knife,” she said. “When we take 
to the roofs we will need them to help us down again.” 

Nikka did as she directed, while I shut the door, and 
piled the few articles of furniture against it. Tokalji’s 
men were in full cry downstairs. 

“There is more than enough rope here,” said Nikka, 
coiling it on his arm. “Some of it I am going to use for 
you.” 

“What?” 

Passion dawned in her big eyes. 

“You cannot go with us, little one. We have no place 
to take you. And you do not know me. To-morrow you 
would cry your eyes out.” 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 


185 


“I tell you I love you,” she answered proudly. “I, 
Kara Tokalji.” 

“The daughter of my deadly enemy,’’ reiterated Nikka. 

“Oh, he is not my father,” she said lightly. “No, I 
think I will go with you, Nikka.” 

“And I think you won’t,” retorted Nikka, gritting his 
teeth. “Here, Jack, catch hold.” 

He cut the rope in two, gave me half, and with the re¬ 
maining section, approached her. She backed away from 
him. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” pleaded Nikka. “But I 
must bind you so they will not suspect that you aided us. 
Don’t you see? And we could not run so fast with you.” 

“I can run as fast as the Frank,” she declared. 
“But—” 

“Our enemies will be here in a moment,” warned Nikka. 

She extended her hands, wrists joined together. 

“Bind me,” she said w T earily. “I love you, Nikka 
Zaranko. If I can help you in no other way, then, I will 
help you by staying here.” 

He bound her gently, hand and foot, without a word, 
and laid her on the floor by the bed. I ascended the lad¬ 
der, and pushed back the trapdoor. 

“You will come again?” she asked, looking up at him 
with mournful eyes. 

“If I do, it will be as an enemy,” he returned. 

“Your enemies are my enemies,” she cried, struggling 
to a sitting position. “With a woman it is her man who 
counts. She cares nothing for the tribe—unless it be her 
man’s. Now, you are my man, Nikka Zaranko.” 

Nikka stooped over her, and I scrambled up on the roof. 
I believe he kissed her. I heard his feet on the ladder- 
rungs, and his voice calling back: 

“You are a brave girl. We will talk about this some 
other time, if the stars are kind.” 

“Oh, we shall meet again,” she replied, her cords creak- 


186 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


ing as she dropped flat on the floor. “I am as sure of it 
as if Mother Kathene had told me when the sight was on 
her. ’ ’ 

To me he merely said: 

“Hurry, Jack! We’ve lost too much time. Which 
way ? ’ ’ 

But I reached down first, and hauled up the ladder. 
The door was shaking under a shower of blows. Kara 
looked interested as my arm appeared, and her lips shaped 
themselves for a kiss. Then she saw it was I, and 
scowled. 

“Next house,” I panted, and we set off across the roof. 

To our left was the inner courtyard, a well of darkness 
in which tinkled the Fountain of the Lion. To our right 
lay Sokaki Masyeri. Ahead was a drop of ten feet on to 
the adjoining roof, the difference in height representing 
the declining slope of the ground. We made it without 
any difficulty. The people in this house had been aroused 
by the shooting, and we could hear their voices and move¬ 
ments. But we shuffled on cautiously, until we came to 
their courtyard, which ran clear from the street-front to 
the old sea-wall. 

“No choice,” grunted Nikka. “Here’s a chimney. 
Knot your rope. It can’t be more than twenty-five feet 
to the ground.” 

“Why not slide directly into the street?” I argued. 

“They might catch us coming down. Do as I say, and 
we can make sure whether the coast is clear before we leave 
the courtyard.” 

He went down first, and I followed him, scorching my 
hands, for the rope was thin and had no knots to check one’s 
descent. I was in mid-air when I heard an exclamation 
beneath me, and a thud. 

“What the devil—” I started to whisper. 

“Hsst!” came from Nikka. “Don’t say anything.” 

He was standing over an inert figure lying on the ground 
beside a half-opened door. 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 


187 


“Did you—” 

“No, only belted him over the head with my pistol.” 

A woman’s voice sounded inside the house, aggressively 
inquisitive. 

, ‘ ‘ My God ! ’ ’ breathed Nikka. 11 She ’ll be out in a minute, 

and I can’t hit her. We’ve got to try the street.” 

We stole through the courtyard to the street-door. Be¬ 
hind us Toutou’s house was seething with activity. Some¬ 
body, apparently, had just gained the roof. The woman 
inside the house we had invaded became impatient, and a 
light showed. My fingers fumbled for the latch; it seemed 
to me I should never find it. The light wavered into the 
doorway, and a scream rose shrilly. 

“Let me try,” said Nikka. “Here it is!” 

He pulled the door toward us very slowly, and we peered 
into the street. Not a figure showed in the direction of 
Tokalji’s house. Ahead of us only a kerosene lantern 
burned in front of a coffee-shop on the corner where Sokaki 
Masyeri curved to the north. And the woman in the door¬ 
way of the house behind us was shrieking for dear life. 

We sped out into the street, letting the door slam be¬ 
hind us. The noise distracted the attention of the woman 
from her unconscious husband, and she left him to run 
after us. We also made the mistake of taking the middle 
of the way instead of sticking to the shadows under the 
walls. And we had not gone fifty feet when we were seen 
by Gypsies on the roof of Tokalji’s house, and they, with 
the woman to help them, cried the rest of the pack hot on 
our trail. 

At the corner by the coffee-shop I looked back and 
counted six in a tapering string, with more emerging from 
the courtyard or climbing over the roofs. Luckily for us, 
however, there was a four-way crossing a hundred yards 
beyond the coffee-shop, and Nikka turned left, away from 
Pera, toward which they would expect us to head. We 
would have been safe then if we had not blundered into 
a Turkish gendarme. He was naturally suspicious of our 





188 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 
« 

haste, and blocked the narrow way; but I gave him a ter¬ 
rific punch in his fat stomach before he could pull his 
gun. 

We got by, of course, but his roars put the Tziganes 
right, and they followed the scent instead of losing it as 
we reckoned they would. The only thing for Nikka to 
do in the circumstances was to twist and turn without 
heed to direction and lose both pursuers and ourselves in 
the breakneck purlieus of Stamboul. He succeeded in shak¬ 
ing off the Gypsies finally, but we were hopelessly astray, 
and it was past midnight when we found the Khan of the 
Georgians and staggered through the gate to thread a pre¬ 
carious path between sleeping men, camels, bullocks, asses 
and horses. 

Wasso Mikali awakened with the first knock on his door, 
and admitted us. Smoking cigarette after cigarette as 
rapidly as he could roll them, he listened to the story of 
our adventures with avidity,—although I discovered later 
that Nikka had suppressed Kara’s part—and immediately 
dispatched his young men to spy around Tokalji’s house, 
and learn the dispositions the enemy were taking. Then 
he insisted that we should sleep while he kept watch, and 
the last memory I have of that awful night is of the old 
Gypsy’s figure stretched out on the floor, his back against 
the bolted door and a cigarette in his mouth. 

When we awakened the sun was streaming in through 
the open door along with all the noises of the Khan and 
many of its smells. Our guardian had coffee ready for 
us in a pot on the brazier, and his young men had sent 
in a report. The women and children had left Tokalji’s 
house under escort of several of the men shortly after 
dawn. A vigilant guard was being maintained on the en¬ 
trance, and nobody had come or gone—aside from the 
party of women and children—since observation had been 
established. Before sunrise our spies had heard the sounds 
of digging inside the premises. 


THE BIG SHOW BEGINS 


189 


Wasso Mikali looked doubtful as be imparted this last 
information. 

“Perhaps they, too, have discovered the location of the 
treasure,” he suggested. 

“No,” said Nikka, smiling. “They are burying their 
dead.” 

“Ha, that is a good thought to hold in the mind,” ex¬ 
claimed the old Gypsy, immensely pleased. “What bet¬ 
ter pleasure could a man ask than to contemplate his 
enemies burying their brother that he slew! ’ ’ 

But instead of indulging in this Tzigane pastime we 
decided to take our European clothing and adjourn to a 
neighboring Turkish bath where we could remove the 
evidence of our Gypsy life. Wasso Mikali went with us to 
carry back to the khan our discarded Gipsy costumes. I 
urged him to join us in the pool after we had soaked off 
the top layer of iniquities in a private room; but he shook 
his head with a grimace of disgust. 

“Tell Jakka, 0 son of my sister,” he said, “that I mar¬ 
vel at the way you risk your naked skins. How can a man 
hope to withstand the cold and heat if he has nothing but 
clothing to cover him? Too much water is bad for the 
strongest. It weakens the muscles.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 

44 / r ~^l 0 far, Jack, you and Mr. Zaranko seem to have 
had most of the fun,” pronounced my cousin 
Betty, as we sat at luncheon in the Kings’ private 
sittingroom in the Pera Palace. 

Watkins for the moment acted as butler, and we were 
safe from inquisitive ears and could talk with freedom. 

“What interests me,” said Hugh thoughtfully, “is how 
many of those Johnnies you scragged last night.” 

“Only the one, I think,” replied Nikka. 

“You hit another chap,” I reminded him. 

“Yes, but two off their strength doesn’t mean any great 
reduction in their fighting force.” 

“Still, counting in those two and the men they sent off 
with their women, as Nikka’s pals reported, they’ll be a 
good bit weaker than they were,” argued Hugh. 

“Just the same,” insisted Betty, “we ought not to 
run any unnecessary risks.” 

“Who’s we?” I inquired. 

“See here, Jack,” she flashed, “because you’re my 
cousin is no reason why you can bully me. You might 
as well understand that I am in this, and I am going to 
have my part in whatever we do.” 

“Hear, hear,” Hugh applauded servilely. 

Nikka laughed. 

“How about it, Vernon?” I demanded of my uncle. 

He spread his hands in a gesture of depreciation. 

“My dear Jack,” he said, “you evidently have small 
acquaintance with the younger feminine generation. Betty 

is of legal age—I trust, my dear, you have no objection 

190 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 


191 


to the revelation of an intimate detail your sex are sup¬ 
posed to cherish in secret?—” 

“Not a particle, dad,” Betty responded cheerfully. 

“—and within reasonable limits, her judgment is to be 
depended upon. Moreover, a not unimportant considera¬ 
tion is that she knows how to run a motor, and in our 
excursions in the Curlew her aid has been of some value.”, 
“Don’t be stuffy, Jack,” urged Hugh. “Give the girl 
a chance. There are lots of things she can do, short of 
mixing it with your friend Toutou. I gather that Nikka’s 
lady friend in the hostile camp was not averse—” 

“That’s a different matter,” I interrupted, perceiving 
the embarrassment on Nikka’s face. 

We had slurred over Kara’s personal interest in his 
fortunes, but even so, the incident, to quote Betty s 
analysis, was “romantic to the nth degree.” 

“I don’t see that it is,” asserted Betty stubbornly,“ and 
I intend to play my part. You are short-handed—” 
“You forget that Nikka has seven men hidden away in 

Stamboul,” I reminded her. 

11 o n the contrary, I take them into account, she re¬ 
torted. “But you have all been saying that it is advisable 
not to use them, except in a final emergency.” 

“That is true,” agreed Nikka. “The more we bring 
into this row, the noisier it will become. Also, as we de¬ 
cided before, we ought to have an ace or two in the hole. 
Take my advice, and hang on to Wasso Mikali and his 

young men to the last.” _ 

“I’m not disputing you,” said Betty, still belligerent. 
“What you say is only what I’ve been saying. But would 
you mind telling me why you are so set against using your 

Gypsies?” . _ . , ,, 

“If we use them there will be killing on a big scale, 

said Nikka succinctly. ‘ ‘ That sort of thing is bound to be- 

come known.” ^ r „ ... 

“I met Riley-Gratton, the O.C. of the M.P.s this 

morning, and he gave me a wad of town gossip, cut in 



192 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Hugh, “but he didn’t say anything about our lads’ scrap 
at Tokalji’s house.” 

“Oh, we can get away with it once or maybe twice,” 
returned Nikka, “but if we keep it up we’ll run into 
trouble.” 

“No question of it,” I said. 

“Then what are we arguing about?” demanded Betty. 

I laughed. 

“Darn it all,” I confessed. “You won’t let up, will 
you ? Well, have it your own way. What do you want to 
do?” 

“Run you down the Bosphorus after dark for a look at 
Tokalji’s house from the water side,” she answered 
promptly. 

Hugh intervened. 

‘ ‘ There’s no question in the minds of you two chaps but 
that any attack ought to come from the water front, is 
there?” he asked. 

“It couldn’t very well come from the street,” replied 
Nikka. “There’s a high, windowless wall and a strong 
door, and even in that lawless quarter publicity would 
attend an armed invasion of private property.” 

“Of course,” said Betty, her head in the air, “it 
couldn’t be any other way. Now tell us some more about 
the hiding-place of the treasure.” 

Nikka shrugged his shoulders and looked at me. 

“What more can we say?” I answered. “There’s the 
courtyard and the red stone.” 

“It’s not hollow, you said?” spoke up King. 

“No.” 

‘ ‘ That would indicate a task of some difficulty in prying 
loose the covering of the treasure chamber,” he remarked. 
“We have—or rather, I should say, Betty has—taken 
precautions to install on board the Curlew an equipment of 
crowbars, pick-axes, shovels, chisels and other tools—” 

“—and a knotted rope with a grapnel on the end to help 
in going up the sea-wall,” reminded Betty. 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 


193 


“True, my dear. Your forethought has been admirable. 
AYhat I was about to say, however, was that a certain 
amount of time—I fear, perhaps, an inordinate amount of 
time—will be required to pry loose the covering of the 
vault. How are we to secure ourselves such an opportu¬ 
nity ? ’ ’ 

“By choosing a time when the occupants of the house 
are off-watch and their numbers diminished/’ declared 
Hugh. 

“True,” agreed Nikka, “yet I confess I don’t see how—” 

And to make a long story short we hashed it over all 
afternoon until tea-time, without arriving at any clearer 
view of the outlook before us. By that time we were sick 
of the discussion, and voted to suspend. Vernon King 
and Betty went to a reception at the British High Commis¬ 
sioner’s, and the rest of us planned to take a walk on the 
chance of running into Wasso Mikali, who had promised to 
come over to Pera in the afternoon if his spies picked up 
any additional information. 

The first person we saw in the hotel lobby was Montey 
Hilyer. He hailed us in front of the booking-office. 

“I say, Chesby,” he drawled in tones that reached all 
the bystanders, “I don’t know what sort of a lark you 
fellows were up to last night, but really, you know, you 
can’t take liberties with natives in the East—and especi¬ 
ally, with their women. Really, old chap, you ought to be 
careful. In your place, I think I’d clear out of Constanti¬ 
nople. No knowing what kind of trouble you may get 
into.” 

Hugh was furious. He looked Hilyer up and down with 
cold scorn. 

“Are you taking a flyer in blackmail, by any chance?” 
he asked deliberately. 

“Not yet,” answered Hilyer cheerfully. “No knowing, 
though. Matter of fact, at present, I’m protecting some 
poor natives who fear they are going to be victimized by a 
gang of foreigners.” 


194 


THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Well, whatever you are doing, I should prefer that you 
keep away from me in the future,” said Hugh. “I can’t 
afford to have the Jockey Club stewards hear that I’ve 
been talking to you.” 

As it happened, the one episode in Hilyer’s piebald 
past that irked his pride and aroused sore memories was 
his suspension from the privileges of the turf. He was 
cynically indifferent to every other charge brought against 
him. But the man was a sincere horseman, his racing 
ventures had been the breath of life to him, his disgrace 
and compulsion to enter his thoroughbreds under other 
men’s colors had been a bitter blow. And he showed this 
feeling now. His face went dead-white; his nostrils 
pinched in. 

“All right, Chesby,” he said curtly, “I won’t forget 
that. ’ ’ 

And he disappeared into the bar. 

“Curse the rotter,” muttered Hugh. “I’m glad some¬ 
thing will flick him on the raw. ’ ’ 

“You were hard on him,” said Nikka seriously. “After 
all, why should you mind anything that he can say?” 

“He was hoping that Miss King was within hearing 
distance,” retorted Hugh. “He said what he did de¬ 
liberately to smear smut on all of us. A dog like that 
doesn’t deserve consideration.” 

“Some people believe a dog does deserve consideration, 
Lord Chesby,” said a feminine voice behind us. 

We turned to face Helene de Cespedes. The Countess 
Sandra Yassilievna was with her. Maude Hilyer, her 
face as ghastly as her husband’s, was hurrying away from 
them. 

“You may be enemies, but why should you make a 
woman cry?” added the Russian girl. “She will be un¬ 
happy for the rest of the day.” 

“I’m very sorry,” answered Hugh stiffly, “but do you 
sincerely believe that her husband is entitled to insult me 
in public?” 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 


195 


“It was a rotten thing he said,” admitted Helene frankly. 
“And of course, he is a rotter. But as I told you boys 
once, they are a queer pair, and Maudey—well, she really 
thinks that if they ever get to a state of affluence, they 
can both turn around and live straight. It’s damned 
silly, but—do you believe in fairies? Those who don’t, 
generally envy those who do.” 

“We don’t believe in fairies,” I answered good-tem- 
peredly, “and we also don’t believe in letting a man who 
is a thief get away with a gratuitous insult.” 

“Oh, you’re right,” said Sandra Yassilievna imparti¬ 
ally, “from your own point of view. But I’m going up 
to tell Maudey that she’ll only ruin her complexion if she 
weeps for what an offensively honest man says to her.” 

Helene laughed as the Russian walked off. 

“Women are almost as funny as men, aren’t they?” 
she said. “Oh, say, before I forget it, Mr. Nash, you want 
to look out for that girl’s brother. You slammed him one 
or two in that fight at Chesby, and he’s had it in for you 
ever since. And after last night, all the men are wild. 
If that Gypsy Tokalji catches you—phew! Oh, boy! And 
Toutou! ’ ’ 

“They weren’t able to catch us last night,” returned 
Nikka. “They aren’t likely to have as good a chance 
again.” 

“You put up a great fight,” she agreed. “Oh, I’m 
handing it to you, all of you! You’re the best little bunch 
I ever ran across. Say, I wouldn’t believe an English lord 
could be as much of a hustler as you, Lord Chesby. Your 
uncle, he—” 

She shrugged. 

‘ ‘ What about my uncle ? ’ ’ asked Hugh eagerly. 41 D ’you 
mind telling how your push got on to him?” 

“N-no, I suppose there’s no harm now,” she answered 
slowly. “Poor old fellow! I was darned sorry he was 
croaked. We none of us—Well, what’s the use talking? 
That Toutou is a devil. Mr. Nash knows it. I only hope 


196 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


lie and the rest of you don’t get to know him any bet¬ 
ter. But about your uncle, Lord Chesby. He was a cinch. 
He ran around here like a kid in a game of ‘Cops-and- 
thieves.’ Everybody knew he was up to something. The 
authorities thought he was just a nut. But when he took 
to snooping around Tokalji’s house, our folks got wise 
to it he might be on to something good. Tokalji’s tribe 
have always had this tradition of a treasure—But you 
know about that. Tokalji had been working with us since 
before the War, and he realized this was more than he 
could tackle by himself, so he called on Toutou. The rest 
is what’s going to happen.” 

“And that?” asked Hugh, grinning. 

“My dear young lord, you’ll lose your shirt—if not 
your life,” she retorted airily. 

“Tough luck,” said Hugh, “but your people have got 
to do better, in that case. ’ ’ 

“You’re dead right,” she agreed. “Say, Mr. Zaranko, 
on the level now, did that girl of Tokalji’s sell out to you 
last night?” 

Nikka stared at her blankly, his face a perfect mask. 

“We had a good deal of trouble with her,” he returned. 
“Had to tie her up. She was right on our heels, with her 
knife.” 

Helene shook her head. 

“Ye-es, that’s true,, but—I saw her this morning. 
Humph! Maybe I’m a fool. I told Toutou to mind his 
own business, and not mix into the tribe’s affairs. Tokalji 
said she was all right, and that ought to be enough.” 

“God help Toutou if he went after her,” I said face¬ 
tiously. 

Helene gave me a quick glance. 

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I’ve often won¬ 
dered what Toutou would do against a woman who used 
a knife. He—he gets ’em in a different way. Well, I’m 
babbling, which is a sign of old age. Be good, boys, and 


) 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 197 

give up before you get into serious trouble. As ever, your 
well-wisher, Helene.” 

And she tripped off. 

“What a delightful criminal,” I remarked. “Somehow 
I don’t mind so much the idea of being plucked by her.” 

“You’re losing your perspective,” growled Hugh, who 
was in a righteous frame of mind, partly because he was 
in love and partly because of his clash with Hilyer. “A 
crook is a crook. They’re all against us. I don’t know 
but that the women are the most dangerous where you 
are concerned, Jack. Why are you so damned suscepti¬ 
ble?” 

At which I laughed. Nikka, walking beside us, had no 
ears for our conversation. His thoughts were on that 
slim, brown Tzigane maid about whom Helene de Cespedes 
had inquired. But he woke up a block farther on, when a 
big, turbanned figure shambled past us, with a guttural 
exclamation from the corner of his mouth. At the next 
corner there was a traffic block, and we grouped casually 
around Wasso Mikali. 

“Tokalji’s women and children are in camp beyond 
Boghazkeui on the edge of the Forest of Belgrade,” he 
murmured, staring at a fat Turkish Pasha who was roll¬ 
ing by in a Daimler. “There are five men with them. 
Five other men have left Sokaki Masyeri since morning. 
If Franks were there they have gone.” 

“It is good, my uncle,” returned Nikka, affecting to 
speak to Hugh. “Continue the watch. If there is more 
to report bid one of your young men lounge before the 
khan where we are staying to-morrow in the forenoon.” 

“It shall be done,” said the old man, and he elbowed his 
way through our ranks as though in haste to cross over. 

I looked behind us for the inevitable spies. There were 
several Levantines in European dress and tarboosh on the 
corner—and Hilmi Bey, who pretended that he was not 
noticing us. His attitude was that of scorning to spy and 


198 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


hating to have it supposed that he could demean himself 
to so plebeian a phase of crime. I called a greeting to 
him in derision. 

“Are you walking our way?” I asked. 

“I have a house in the Rue Midhat Pasha,” he an¬ 
swered effusively. “I am going to visit my wives. It is 
a long time since I have seen them. Don’t let me detain 
you, gentlemen. I turn right at the opposite corner.” 

“A vain dog,” commented Nikka, sourly watching 
Hilmi’s plump back. “Pie was afraid to be caught in such 
an ordinary undertaking.” 

“Well,” said Hugh, whose temper had improved, “it 
goes to show that criminals are human beings. Every one 
of these birds seems to have some sense of shame if you 
can only pick out the right point of contact.” 

We led our escorts—for we took it for granted that we 
were under observation—a dilatory stroll, and arrived back 
at the Pera Palace in time for dinner, which, as usual, we 
had served in the King’s sitting room. It was a leisurely 
meal, for we had time to kill. There was an early moon, 
and we wanted it to set before the Curlew left the Golden 
Horn. 

After Watkins had brought the coffee, Betty excused her¬ 
self. She returned in a quarter of an hour dressed in a 
warm sport suit instead of the light evening frock she had 
worn, and carrying two boxes of cartridges. 

“Have you all got your pistols loaded?” she inquired. 
“Watkins? Daddy?” 

“I think so, my dear,” answered her father absent- 
mindedly. “I wish, Jack, that you had observed more 
carefully the carvings on that colonnade. It may be truly 
ancient or—What? What is it, Betty?” 

She deftly frisked him, and examined his automatic. 

“Yes, it’s all right,” she said, returning it to him. 
“And for Heaven’s sake remember, Dad, that the safety 
lock is on. Here’s an extra clip. Watkins?” 


FIRST CRUISE OF THE CURLEW 


199 


Watkins set down the tray of coffee-cups, and cautiously 
hauled his weapon from his hip-pocket. 

“Quite right, I think, ma’am, Miss King,” he replied. 

“Here’s an extra clip for you, too. Boys?” 

“You don’t catch old campaigners like us with empty 
weapons,” I jeered. “It isn’t we who’ll be getting into 
trouble. ’ 9 

“I wish I could be sure of that,” she retorted. “Most 
likely I’ll be trying to pull you out of a scrape twenty- 
four hours from now. But let’s get started. We have a 
car at the side entrance to run us down to the Man-o’-war 
Landing, where the Curlew is moored.” 

If the spies were still watching the hotel, as I have no 
doubt they were, we gave them the slip. We went down¬ 
stairs together, and shot into the closed car which was in 
waiting, Watkins sitting beside the chauffeur. Ten min¬ 
utes later we drew up on the Curlew’s dock, secure from 
observation because of the British marine sentries who 
stood guard at the dock-gates. 

The Curlew was a handy craft, decked over forward, with 
a roomy cockpit and a good, heavy-duty Mercedes engine. 
She was nothing to look at, but reliable and efficient. 
Betty, who was an experienced yachtswoman, automatic¬ 
ally assumed command, and Hugh and Watkins as auto¬ 
matically accepted the role of crew. Vernon King, Nikka 
and I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. 

“Lay for’ard, Hugh, and slack off that bow-line,” 
ordered Betty energetically. “How is the engine, Wat¬ 
kins? Very well, turn it over.” 

There was a splutter, and then the steady “put-put- 
put.” 

“Cast off that bow-line, Hugh! Lay aft, Watkins. Is 
the stern-line slack? Pay out! Let go! Get out from 
under my feet, Jack. No, Daddy, you can’t have a cigar— 
nothing but running-lights. I’d douse those if I weren’t 
afraid of the Navy people. Mr. Zaranko, d’you mind 


200 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


dropping into the cabin and taking a look at the tools 
we laid in?” 

We chugged slowly through the glut of shipping in the 
Golden Horn, edging away from the Galata shore toward 
the picturesque bulk of Stamboul. Seraglio Point loomed 
ahead of us, high, rugged, tree-covered, dotted with infre¬ 
quent lights. We rounded it, the lighthouse twinkling 
on our starboard beam, and turned southwest into the Bos¬ 
phorus, with the wide sweep of the Marmora just ahead. 
To port the outline of Scutari and the suburbs on the 
Asiatic shore showed dimly. To starboard Stamboul 
towered, white and ghostly and serenely beautiful, more 
than ever the magic city of the Arabian Nights. The 
steamer from Rodosto ancl other Marmoran ports steamed 
past us with a swash and gurgle. A belated fishing-boat 
flapped by. Then we had the waters to ourselves. 

“Have you the night-glasses, Hugh?” questioned Betty. 
“See if you can make out the St. Sophia minarets.” And 
to us: “That’s our first landfall in making Tokalji’s 
house. Watkins, I think it ought to be safe now to douse 
the running-lights.” 

Hugh leaned forward across the cabin-roof, resting on 
his elbows, eyes glued to the glasses. 

“Right 0,” he called back. “I’m on them—and I can 
see that big old tower of the sea-walls that lies this side 
of the jetty.” 

Betty cut off the engine. 

“Fetch the sweeps, Watkins,” she whispered. “We’ll 
pull in. Quiet, everybody.” 


CHAPTER XX 


OUT OF LUCK 

H UGH and Watkins unlashed two heavy oars from 
the cabin roof and thrust them outboard through 
oarlocks rivetted to the cockpit railing. Side 
by side, in unison, they pulled with a long, deliberate 
stroke, while Betty steered. It was no easy task to move 
that launch across the swift-flowing tide of the Bosphorus, 
and it seemed an endless time before the blurred mass of 
the shoreline, becoming visible to our unaided sight, fur¬ 
nished an index to the progress we were making. 

“Nikka and I can relieve them,” I offered as the rowers 
began to pant. 

“You haven’t done it before,” answered Betty shortly. 
“You might splash.” 

Indeed, the oars made scarcely a ripple as they were 
lifted, feathered and dipped, tedious as was the effort im¬ 
posed both by their weight and the size of the launch. 
“Much farther?” Hugh gritted between clenched teeth. 
“The jetty is right ahead,” Betty reassured him. “You 
had better get for’ard, Dad, and be ready to fend off the 
rocks. ’ ’ 

Vernon King climbed up on the cabin roof and crawled 
into the bow. Nikka and I strained our eyes endeavor¬ 
ing to identify the details of the shore. To the right, and 
already a little astern of us, was a huge round tower, one 
of the bulwarks of the ancient walls. Other than this 
there was only a dim range of masonry, the city walls, for 
the most part, crowned by houses. Not a light showed 
opposite to us. 

Presently, letting our eyes drop lower, we descried im- 

201 


202 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


mediately in front a low breakwater, a jagged pile of rocks 
that ran out from the shore in the form of a blunted hook. 
Betty, steering carefully, brought the Curlew inside the 
hook and bow-on to the shore, so that the launch was pro¬ 
tected from the current that flowed through the Strait. 
King scrambled ashore and made fast a line around one 
of the rocks, then felt his way back along the slippery foot¬ 
ing of the breakwater and stepped into the cockpit. Hugh 
and Watkins unshipped the sweeps and laid them on the 
cabin roof. 

All of us were staring at the blank darkness of the 
shoreline, tense and watchful; but my uncle’s interest 
was still largely of an antiquarian nature. 

“Do you appreciate how extraordinarily fortunate we 
are to have this ruined jetty to moor to?” he whispered 
excitedly. “No galleys in the old days were ever able to 
assail these seaward walls because of the currents. With¬ 
out protection, we, too, should be smashed to pieces if 
we tried to lie under them. But this place evidently was 
one of the walls of a harbor for the Imperial galleys. It 
was, of course, fortified. This hook terminated in a strong 
tower. A second hook—” 

“Daddy, Daddy,” remonstrated Betty, “you aren’t 
lecturing to-night. We—we’re reconnoitering the en¬ 
emy’s position.” 

Hugh had been studying the shore again through the 
night-glasses. 

“Not a sign of life,” he murmured. “Now, you chaps, 
show us the lay of the land.” 

Nikka and I, with the help of the glasses, plotted for the 
others the arrangement of Tokalji’s establishment. There 
was the brick extension of the bachelors’ quarters, crown¬ 
ing a part of the sea-wall. There was the gap between this 
structure and the House of the Married, which was shut 
in only by the crenellated height of the wall. And finally, 
there was the House of the Married, with the Garden of 
the Cedars concealed within its heart, lifting its solid 


OUT OF LUCK 


203 


bulk above all adjoining buildings. There were no win¬ 
dows on the seaward face of Tokalji’s house. 

“The old wall between the two wings—between the 
bachelors’ quarters and warehouse and the House of the 
Married—ought to be easy to climb,” I concluded. 

“The wall of the House of the Married is very irregu¬ 
lar, too,” added Betty. “We have passed it close in a 
number of times by daylight, and we all agreed an active 
man could climb it.” 

“That’s a good idea,” approved Nikka. “If you could 
enter by the House of the Married you could seize the 
valuable part of the position first. Sound military strat¬ 
egy.” 

“Yes,” assented Hugh, “you could consolidate your 
position—how the old lingo comes back, though!—and 
then occupy the rest of the place as convenient. By jove, 
if you didn’t want to occupy it, you could—” 

“Oh, you’d have to occupy it,” I interrupted. “I say, 
do you know that place looks deserted?” 

“There’s somebody there, never fear,” rejoined Betty. 

“According to Nikka’s uncle, a good part of the gar¬ 
rison were withdrawn to-day,” returned Hugh. 

“There is no use hurrying,” cautioned my uncle. “We 
shall have plenty of opportunities.” 

‘ ‘ There is good reason for striking when you are not ex¬ 
pected,” retorted Hugh; 

Nobody answered him. We were all staring hungrily at 
the shadowy shape of the House of the Married, towering 
above the seawall. It hypnotized us. We were enthralled 
by the unfathomable mysteries it suggested, by the knowl¬ 
edge of the mighty prize it contained. 

“There’s no time like the present,” I said softly. 

“Yes, they won’t be looking for us so soon again,” agreed 
Nikka. “They will be figuring that we had enough of a 
fright last night.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” surrendered Vernon King. 
“Audacity, we are frequently told, is the favored bride of 


204 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


fortune. I must admit that this place exerts a lure which 
arouses in me certain primitive instincts I had supposed 
were finally cured or buried.” 

“You mean, Dad,” said Betty, “that you feel like be¬ 
ing foolish with the others.” 

“Oh, come, Bet,” protested Hugh, “this is no time 
for squabbling. What could be more unexpected than a 
raid from us to-night? They probably think, as Nikka 
says, that we will go slow after last night, and they don’t 
even know we are out here.” 

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” rejoined Betty. 

“Besides,” I said, “their force is so depleted that we 
couldn’t have a better opportunity.” 

“They may be reinforced.” 

“Nonsense,” said Hugh. “Watty, bring out those tools. 
We shall want the rope for climbing and a couple of crow¬ 
bars. If we need anything else we can send back for 
it.” 

Watkins, who had preserved a respectful silence through¬ 
out our debate, cleared his throat apologetically. 

“I beg your ludsliip’s pardon, but—but—you’ll not be 
going into that den of thieves at this hour of the night, 
sir?” 

“Certainly, Watty. It will be easier ‘at this hour of 
the night’ than in broad daylight.” 

“But—but—your ludship! Mister Hugh, sir! It’s 
flying in the face of Providence, if I may say so—after 
what ’appened to Mister Jack and Mister Nikka, sir— 
there’s no knowing what those devils ’ave waitin’ for 
you.” 

I am ashamed to say that we all chuckled as loudly as 
we dared at Watkins’s fears. 

“You can stay in the boat with Miss Betty, if you’d 
rather,” said Hugh. 

Without a word, Watkins dropped down the cabin hatch¬ 
way. 


OUT OF LUCK 


205 


“Why do yon single me out to be left behind?” de¬ 
manded Betty indignantly. 

“Because, Betty, you can’t climb that wall—and some¬ 
body has got to be ready to start the engine and get us 
away in a hurry. ’ ’ 

“I suppose you’re right,” she sighed. “Well, don’t 
blame me if anything goes wrong. Of all the hare¬ 
brained— ” 

“Rats!” I scoffed. “If they jump us, and there are 
too many of them, we’ll retreat. But maybe we can clean 
up this job to-night for good and all. If we can, it’s 
worth trying.” 

Watkins emerged from the cabin with the tools and the 
expression of a martyr. Nikka insisted that he was the 
best climber in the party, and took charge of the rope. 
Hugh and I carried the crowbars, which w r e wrapped in 
sailcloth to prevent their clinking against the stones of 
the wall. Then we stepped on to the slimy rocks of the 
jetty, Nikka in the lead. 

It was a perilous climb to the shore, and we negotiated 
it slowly, helping one another and taking every precau¬ 
tion to avoid making any noise. At last we found our¬ 
selves in the jumble of bowlders constituting the break¬ 
water at the foot of the sea-wall, which reared its moss- 
grown battlements high overhead. We turned to the left 
here, and crawled over and through the rocks on the beach 
to a point under the overhanging wall of the House of the 
Married. From the beach it looked unclimbable, but 
Nikka, after surveying its mounting courses, shattered and 
riven by centuries of neglect, by earthquakes and the cease¬ 
less battering of the waves, removed his shoes and started 
the ascent, an end of the grapnel-rope looped around his 
waist. 

We who watched him stood with knocking hearts for 
what seemed an eternity. Spread-eagled against the wall, 
he appeared as infinitesimal as a fly in the darkness. At 


206 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


first we could see him when he slipped and caught him¬ 
self or sprawled or clutched for handholds. But soon he 
became an indistinct blotch on the masonry, and we held 
our breath, helpless now to aid him. Our first knowl¬ 
edge that he had succeeded came when he jerked up the 
grapnel lying on the beach at our feet. He hoisted it 
slowly, lest it clash against the wall, adjusted its prongs 
and tossed down the knotted length of rope. 

Hugh followed him with ease, bracing his feet against 
the wall when he was tired. Then I went up. Then my 
uncle. Watkins came last. We stood, bending low, on 
the seaward verge of the roof over which Nikka and I had 
fled the previous night. It was now well towards midnight, 
and a haze was settling over the city. The Curlew was 
invisible even to us who knew precisely her location. The 
large courtyard to our right was a mere blot; the Gar¬ 
den of the Cedars in front of us was marked by the whis¬ 
pering tops of its two trees. The silence was abso¬ 
lute. The water lapped on the beach below. That was 
all. 

Naturally and by right, Hugh took command. It was 
his expedition. 

“Do we go down through the trapdoor Jack and Nikka 
used or do we use the rope to drop directly into the Gar¬ 
den?” he asked. 

“Best use the trapdoor,” advised Nikka. 

“Yes,” I agreed. “Then the rope will always be handy 
in case you want to escape.” 

“Right 0!” endorsed Hugh cheerfully. “Jack, you 
and Nikka will come with me. Professor King and Watty 
will be rearguard and second-line for emergency use. Stay 
where you are, Professor, until you hear from us.” 

“But do you consider it advisable, in full accord with 
military strategy, to divide your forces?” objected my 
uncle. “Surely—” 

“We can handle twice our number,” replied Hugh. “If 
there are more than that we’ll call on you. But you and 


OUT OF LUCK 


207 


Watty aren’t as used to scrapping as we are, and it 
wouldn’t be fair to mix you in it if it can be avoided. 
Come on, lads.” 

We crossed the roof toward Sokaki Masyeri, the large 
courtyard on our right, the Garden of the Cedars on our 
left. The trapdoor was shut, but unfastened, and Hugh 
lifted it. The ladder was in place under it. Hugh low¬ 
ered himself gently, and creaked down to the floor. We 
followed him. The room was in pitch-darkness, but we 
made certain by touch that it was empty. The bed from 
which Nikka and I had cut the cords lay exactly as we had 
left it, the clothes tumbled over the foot. The door to the 
hall was off its hinges, but propped in place. 

“I’ve picked up a chair-leg,” Nikka whispered by the 
broken door. “You fellows use your crowbars if—” 

He paused significantly. 

“Right,” Hugh whispered back. “Can we lift this door 
aside?” 

The hinges rattled slightly as we shifted it. The next 
moment we* peered through a yawning cavity, ears 
alert. Not a sound reached us, and we stole forward with 
the utmost care. Midway of the hall were the corkscrew 
stairs up which Kara had guided Nikka and me. I judged 
we were close to them when a door jarred beside us. There 
was a shout, and we were surrounded by a mob of half- 
seen figures. They poured from the head of the stairs as 
well as from the rooms opening off the hall in which they 
had lain concealed. They were all around us, but in the 
darkness they got in each other’s way, and I thought we 
could beat them off. 

A man seized me by the shoulder, and I drove my fist 
into his face. Two others leaped on me. I cracked the 
skull of one with my crowbar, and broke the arm of the 
second. Hugh in front of me was driving his opponents 
down the stairs. I heard Nikka exclaim once, then a gasp 
—and a light flashed, three lights flashed. Hugh had 
cleared a space, but went down as I looked, throttled from 


208 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


behind. Nikka was just rising from beside a man whose 
head was crushed in. Then the rush began again. 

I reached for my pistol, but did not have time to draw 
it. The attackers surged in from all sides. I had a fleet¬ 
ing glimpse of Hilmi Bey. Serge Vassilievich ran up the 
stair. I heard somewhere the snarling voice of Toutou 
LaFitte. 

‘‘Jack, hold them for me!” cried Nikka. 11 Must warn— 
King!” 

I swung my crowbar in a circle, and backed towards 
Nikka’s voice. He had shaken himself clear. 

“In that door—opposite—reach window!” he gasped. 

We charged and split a path toward the door of one 
of the rooms. As we reached it, a pair of gorilla-like 
arms wound around my neck. I tried to hit over my 
shoulder with the crowbar, but somebody caught my wrist. 
As I fell I heard Nikka’s cry: 

“Run, Professor! Save Betty! We’re—” 

That was all. Toutou had me on the floor and was 
choking the life out of me. I lost consciousness. 

When I came to I was lying on a very damp, hard floor. 
Several lights dazzled my aching eyes, and a number of 
people were talking in French. 

“Ha, Nash is with us again,” said Hilyer’s voice. “I 
was afraid you might have done him in, Toutou.” 

“If you take my advice,”—I recognized Hilmi Bey’s 
falsetto tones—“you will have Toutou operate on all three 
of them. He has ways to make silent men speak. Do 
you remember Rattner, the Swiss broker, Toutou?” 

Toutou’s answer was an almost indistinguishable “guhr- 
rrrr-rrr-rr” of rage. 

Alive now to the position I was in, I opened my eyes 
wider and tried to rise. But I was bound hand and foot, 
and could not move. I could, however, see where I was. 
Not far away Hugh and Nikka were propped against the 
stone wall of a chamber, which I suppose you could call 
a dungeon. It had no window. The one door was open. 


OUT OF LUCK 


209 


The floor sloped gradually toward the center, where there 
was a square stone grating about two feet square. 

But the most interesting aspect of my surroundings was 
the group in the doorway. Toutou stood in front, his 
green eyes sparkling with hate and lust. Hilmi Bey 
fawned at his elbow. Serge Vassilievich and Hilyer were 
there. Tokalji frowned at us, hand on his knife-hilt, 
Helene de Cespedes and Sandra Vassilievna, in their mod¬ 
ish costumes, looked singularly out of place. They lent 
a touch of unreality to what was otherwise a singularly 
brutish picture. As I looked, Helene stepped for¬ 
ward. 

“Help Mr. Nash to sit up, Montey,” she said. 

He looked from her to Toutou. 

“Oh, it won’t prevent his answering questions,’’ she 
snapped. “Please do as I say.” 

He raised me not ungently to a sitting position. Hugh 
and Nikka grinned at me. 

‘ ‘ The question before the house,’ ’ said Hugh, 11 is what 
route to Hades we are to take, and the preliminary stages 
of discomfort we shall undergo to satisfy the head devil 
over there and his assistants.” 

“You are in a serious fix,” continued Helene. “Joking 
won’t help you any. I’ve tried to make you boys under¬ 
stand that the Boches were merciful enemies compared 
to us. We don’t recognize civilization. For us it doesn’t 
exist. We have gone back to primal principles. Now 
we’ve got you, and you’ve got to talk.” 

“Words, words,” lamented Hilmi viciously. “Let Tou¬ 
tou take his knife to them. That will do the trick.” 

Tokalji evidently understood the purport of this, for 
he rasped a quick assent. Toutou flashed a long, stiletto¬ 
like blade, and stepped toward us. 

“I’ll carve them,” he purred. “They do not look now 
as they will when I have finished with them. Ha, yes, 
Toutou’s knife knows the way to truth. Soon they will 
be asking to die.” 


210 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


But Hilyer jumped in front of him. The Englishman’s 
thin face was aflame with temper. 

“I’ll stand for a good deal,” he said, “but I won’t per¬ 
mit torture. You are a fool, Toutou. You’d only kill 
them the way you did the old lord. Here, you people, 
we must call him off. He’ll spoil the whole show.” 

Sandra backed him up, and compelled her brother some¬ 
what sullenly to join in the protest. But Hilmi Bey and 
Tokalji energetically took the opposing side. 

“They have killed three more of my men,” howled the 
Gypsy. “Shall they sow death through my tribe, and live 
unharmed?” 

“They shall,” declared Helene calmly. 

She stepped beside Toutou, and placed her fingers on 
his wrist. Her eyes sought his. He snarled in his cat¬ 
like fashion, and drew away from her. But she fearlessly 
came closer to him, and slowly, under the compulsion of 
her fingers, he returned the knife to its sheath. 

“Hilmi Bey!” she rapped. 

The Levantine bowed before her. 

fT If you spoil this play,” she said coldly, “I will kill 
you with my own hand. Keep out of what concerns your 
betters, pig!” 

He cringed to her, and would have answered. But she 
silenced him with a wave of the hand. 

“There has been enough of this,” she went on. “Mr. 
Nash, do you join with your friends in refusing to give 
up your secret?” 

I nodded. 

“Very well,” she answered, “we will leave you to 
think it over. If you are wise, you will understand that 
having blundered into this trap—as you must have blun¬ 
dered sooner or later—the best you can hope for is life 
in exchange for what we want. I cannot continue to save 
you from the cruelty of those of us who relish brutal 
measures. There is a limit to my patience, too. I advise 
you to make intelligent use of the next twenty-four hours. 


OUT OF LUCK 


211 


You cannot be saved. Your friends cannot reach you. 
The authorities cannot intervene. If they did, you would 
disappear. You have twenty-four hours more.” 

They took all the lanterns, except one, and went out, 
locking the door after them. 


CHAPTER XXI 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 

TT TELL, this is a nice mess I got you chaps into,” 
\ /\ / said Hugh unhappily, 
y y “It’s not your fault any more than it is 
ours,” returned Nikka. “We walked squarely into a trap 
and were bagged. That’s all.” 

“Were they ready for us?” I asked with what interest 
my aching head would permit. 

Hugh laughed with hollow mirth. 

“That girl Helene has an uncanny mind. She told the 
others, when their trailers reported they had lost us, to 
watch out for a raid on Tokalji’s premises. They were 
so exultant over it that they blabbed everything. They 
didn’t hear the Curlew or see her. They didn’t know we 
were here until we raised the trapdoor. But they were 
prepared for us no matter which way we came. They had 
brought in every man they could trust. We didn’t have 
a chance.” 

“Did the Kings and Watty get away?” 

“Must have. Helene and the others said nothing about 
them.” 

“I hope they will not try anything foolish in the way 
of a rescue,” said Nikka. “If Wasso Mikali establishes 
touch with them, I am afraid they may be tempted to do 
something.” 

‘ ‘ There is nothing they can do, ’ ’ answered Hugh. ‘ 1 Our 
goose is cooked. We’re kaput, finished. As Helene said, 
if the 0. C. of the Forces of Occupation jammed his way 
in here, they could make a clean sweep of us. They 
might—” 


212 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 


213 


He hesitated. 

“—they might drop us down that grating in the floor, 
toss us into the Bosphorus the way Abdul the Damned 
used to dispose of his enemies. There are lots of things 
they could do with us. They will think that even if they 
have to scrag us they will still have the Kings and Watty 
to work on.” 

11 Don’t be too comforting,” I observed with feeble sar¬ 
casm. 

Nikka roused himself. 

“There is no sense in abandoning hope,” he remarked. 
“Is this any worse than that pill-box at Le Ferriere?” 

“Good old Nikka,” said Hugh affectionately. “I say, 
if I had to make an ass of myself I’d rather do it with 
two such prime—” 

“Asses?” I suggested. 

“—Not even to you would I say that, "Jack,” he re¬ 
torted. “By the way, lads, we’re not running true to 
form. In every tale I ever read in which brave, resource¬ 
ful men were made prisoners, they gnawed each other’s 
ropes and so gained their freedom.” 

Nikka chuckled at this. 

“If I tried to reach either of you I’d roll over on my 
face,” he said. “I’ve already tested the knots around my 
wrists. It would take a strong man half an hour to un¬ 
tie them, and a very sharp knife to hack through them. 
The only way we shall be freed is by help from out¬ 
side.” 

“That means not at all,” replied Hugh. “Let’s try 
for a nap. It must be some hours to daylight yet—not 
that that matters any in this dark hole.” 

We slept fitfully, frightfully harassed by the curtail¬ 
ment of circulation due to the straitness of our bonds and 
the discomfort of our positions which we might not change. 
Hugh fell over in his sleep, and awakened Nikka and me 
with his groans as he endeavored to roll off his face. By 
persistent efforts he finally succeeded in getting on his 


214 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


back; but he was obliged to stay there, and advised us 
to retain our sitting positions if we could. 

Of course, we had no means of estimating the passage 
of time, but we figured it was well into the forenoon 
when we abandoned further efforts for sleep. Nobody 
came to us, and we began to be aware of the pangs of 
hunger and thirst. At first we paid little attention to 
this hardship, but as the hours dragged along we realized 
that our desertion could mean only one thing: that our 
enemies were determined to assail our courage with every 
weapon they had. And to tell the truth, courage became 
something to grapple for after your belly turned upside 
down for emptiness and your tongue commenced to thicken. 
To add to our misery, the one lantern flickered out with 
a rancid stench of oil, and several rats discovered us. 
They feared us, perhaps, as much as we feared them. 
But their scamperings and sorties were nerve-racking, and 
we expected every moment to feel their sharp teeth in 
our wrists and ankles. 

For a while we talked and sang and told stories, but 
our cracked lips and swollen tongues soon felt the strain 
of vocal effort. What the others did then I don’t know, 
but I fell asleep—to awaken suddenly with a gasp of 
agony as I lost my balance and fell sideways, striking 
my head on the stone floor. 

“Too bad,” came Hugh’s voice from the darkness, 
strangely muffled. “Hit your head, Jack?” 

“Yes,” I moaned. 

“Twenty-four hours must be nearly up,” croaked Nikka. 

I fought for a while to work over on to my back, but 
my limbs had become so stiff that I could not. I had to 
lie on my stomach, with my head resting, now on one 
cheek, now on the other. In this position, ear to the 
floor, it seemed to me that I heard a clink of metal, not 
outside the door of the dungeon, but somewhere under¬ 
neath. I asked the others if they heard it, but they said 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 


215 


no, and I could tell from their pitying tones that they 
thought I was becoming delirious. 

Yet again I heard it, and almost immediately after¬ 
ward a wholly different sound: footsteps approaching the 
door. The two noises persisted together until the dungeon 
door was thrown open with a clatter. I forgot all about 
the first noise in the sight of Toutou LaFitte, standing by 
himself in the doorway, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and a 
grin of horrible anticipation distorting his beautiful face. 

It was as though a mask of animal hunger cloaked his 
features. Their regularity was undisturbed. Each was 
in its usual place and relation to the rest, but their effect 
was entirely abnormal. They were warped and twisted 
by passions that must have rocked the foundations of the 
man’s soul. His green eyes radiated an unholy light. 
His long arms were crooked and extended, his hands open 
and prehensile fingers hooked. He walked warily, bent- 
kneed, slowly. A slight trickle of saliva flowed from the 
corner of his mouth. 

In the doorway he stood motionless for a moment, sur¬ 
veying the three of us. Then he advanced, leaving the door 
open against the wall, and unhooked the stable-lantern 
which hung from his belt. He placed this close to the 
grating, and prowled over to where I lay. 

I say “prowled,” and I mean just that. Fie walked 
like a big forest cat, or, rather, like a gorilla, investigat¬ 
ing a likely meal awaiting the kill. When he stood by 
me, I felt up and down my spine the shiver of apprehen¬ 
sion, of sheer horror, that I had known before in his 
proximity. When he turned me on my back, and his 
powerful hands, with their smooth fingers and polished 
nails, explored my muscles, I could have screamed with 
terror. I twitched at his touch, with an involuntary ex¬ 
clamation of repugnance. He snarled, and his fingers 
pressed on a nerve of the upper arm, with a force that 
made me faint. 


216 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


But almost at once he flung me from him, and walked 
across to Hugh, who met him unflinchingly. 

“I take it, Monsieur Toutou,” said Hugh, ‘‘that the 
twenty-four hours are up.” 

Toutou stood over him, with that peculiarly animal, 
bent-kneed posture of meditated attack, arms flexed for¬ 
ward. 

“Not quite,” he answered in the throaty, guttural voice 
that I always identified with him. “But we are tired of 
waiting.” 

He swooped and snatched Hugh into his arms, just as 
a gorilla might, squeezing ferociously. Hugh’s face 
showed above his shoulder, white and beaded with per¬ 
spiration. I thought the fiend intended to crush Hugh’s 
ribs, but he ceased as suddenly as he had begun and 
tossed his victim down on the floor again. 

“You shall come last,” he growled. “First, you shall 
see your friends suffer.” 

Hugh was too weak from the handling he had just ex¬ 
perienced and the shock of his fall to see what happened 
next, but I did. Toutou leaped on Nikka with one tigerish 
spring, lifting him to his feet and propping him against 
the wall. Then he prodded Nikka from head to foot, 
testing out muscles and joints, all the time growling in 
his throat. He did not hurt him, simply felt of him as 

though to determine the parts of his body which would be 
juiciest. 

Nikka’s face showed revulsion, but no fear. 

“Do you eat men, Toutou?” he gibed. 

Toutou flashed his knife, and I closed my eyes, think¬ 
ing, to see the torture begin. But when I opened them 
again, the knife was slashing the ropes that bound Nikka’s 
limbs. Foi a second I credited the incredible. Y^ere we 
to be set free? But no. Toutou sheathed the knife, and 
crouched before Nikka once more, animal-like, menacing. 

“lama bone-breaker,” he rasped. “I break men, bone 
by bone, joint by joint. Have you ever felt your bones 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 


217 


breaking, your sinews cracking ? Guuhbrr-rrrr-rrr-rr! * ’ 
He pounced, and Nikka screamed, screamed in an ex¬ 
cess of agony as the beast’s fingers sank into his shoulder, 
torturing the nerves, tearing the sinews and muscles, drag¬ 
ging the bone from its socket. 

But there was another cry from the open door. With 
a whirl of skirts a slight figure darted in, a knife gleamed 
and plunged home, and Toutou started back from his 
victim, his own left arm dripping blood. His face was 
a queer mixture of rage, lust and puzzled alarm. Shak¬ 
ing his head, with the saliva trickling down his chin, he 
stood, frowning, like an animal more than ever, an animal 
which had been curbed and chastised. And before him, 
knife in one hand, pistol in the other, stood Kara, her 
eyes blazing with passion, breast heaving through the rags 
of her bodice, her slender body quivering with anger. 

“You would dare!” she cried shrilly. “You would dare 
to touch my man! No man lives who can touch him while 
I live. He is mine, I say! Mine ! I will cut your throat, 
big French pig. I will carve out your bowels! I will 
pick out your eyes! I will, I say! I will! ’ ’ 

She danced toward him so energetically that he cowered 
and gave ground before her. 

“Go!” she cried, gesturing with her pistol toward the 
door. “Quick, before I strike!” And she leaped at him. 
He clutched his wounded arm, and retreated. “Go, I 
say!” She raised her arm to stab him again. “Did you 
think I would let you touch him? Did not the others say 
that you should only harm one of them? And you took 
my man ! Oh, I will cut you in ribbons! ’ ’ 

And this time he turned, and fled through the door, 
slamming it behind him. She was swift on his heels, 
jerked open the door and ran out into the passage after 

him. 

“Run!” I heard her shout. “I am close to you! I, 
Kara Tokalji! My knife is at your back. Make haste—” 
Then the door swung to, and shut out the echoes of 


218 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


Toutou’s retreat. My whole thought was of Nikka, his 
face green in the lantern-light, his empty stomach retch¬ 
ing with the nausea from horrible pain. Hugh called to 
him: 

“Nikka, old chap! Pull yourself together. Can you 
get me unfastened? I’ll see what I can do for—” 

But I promptly lost interest in Nikka’s plight. For my 
ear, that I could not lift from the floor, registered once 
more that peculiar clinking underground, this time more 
pronounced and nearer. I peered idly along the floor, 
watched a rat flit from hole to hole, and then stiffened 
with amazement as the grating in the middle of the room 
lifted two or three inches. It thudded into place again 
with a shower of dust, but at once the clinking was re¬ 
sumed, and the heavy stonework was pried upward. 

“Hugh!” I whispered. “Nikka! My God, look at the 
grating! Do you see what I see ? ’ ’ 

Nikka was still too sick to understand, but Hugh stared 
at the grating, and his eyes popped from his head as he 
perceived its unsteady progress upward. 

We were both afraid to speak, afraid to guess what it 
might mean. And while we still watched, uncertainly, 
wondering whether to hope or to fear, we heard a loud 
grunt, the grating rose into the air, tottered and fell out 
of place, leaving the drain only half-covered. The end 
of a steel crowbar appeared in this opening, there was an¬ 
other grunt, and the grating was levered aside. 

“Where’s that ’ere dratted box?” muttered a familiar 
voice. “If the Servants’ ’All could see me now!” 

Two hands clutched the sides of the drain opening, the 
grunt was repeated for the third time—and Watkins 
clambered laboriously into the dungeon. 

“If your ludship will pardon me a minute,” he puffed. 
“This work does fair do me up—at my time of life and 
all, Mister Hugh, sir—and the rats down there are as 
big as old Tom the mouser in the dairy at Chesby.” 

We could only stare at him. Even poor Nikka forgot 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 219 

his agony and peered unbelievingly at this extraordinary 
apparition. 

’As that Tootoo gone, your ludship?” continued Wat¬ 
kins, looking around. 

He drew a pistol from his coat pocket. 

“Miss Betty told me to be sure not to shoot if I could 
’elp it. But I would ’ave taken a crack at ’im, only I 
couldn’t rightly see down below there, and I was afraid 
’e’d tumble to me if ’e ’eard me like, so—” 

“For God’s sake, Watty, where did you come from?” 
burst from Hugh. 

“From the drain, your ludship. I nearly broke my 
neck in the opening last night account of coming down the 
rope so sudden with the Professor, and when I told Miss 
Betty she said it was a gift from ’Eaven and we must 
come back, which we did, your ludship.” 

“Do you mean to say,” asked Hugh, “that there’s a 
passage down there and Miss Betty is outside?” 

“Quite right, your ludship,” said Watkins, rising and 
commencing to dust himself off. “It runs out into the 
big rocks on the beach. The Professor, ’e says, sir, it’s 
a great discovery, it’s a regular, sure-enough old Roman 
sewer. Miss Betty, she said it was nothing of the kind, it 
was a gift from ’Eaven.” 

“Well,” I said, thrusting myself into the conversation, 
“this is no time for a debate. If you are going to get 
us out, Watty, you have got to move quickly. Toutou and 
his friends will be back any moment. One girl can’t keep 
them away. I suspect they’d have been here by now, if 
she hadn’t precipitated some kind of a row.” 

“Very good, sir, Mister Jack,” answered Watkins, 
calmly producing a knife from his belt. “Such a neces¬ 
sity was duly foreseen, if I may say so.” 

He went to work methodically on my lashings. 

“I trust you will take notice, your ludship, that all 
possible ’aste ’as been made. It was fair mucky below 
there, as you will see, gentlemen, and I barked my shins 


220 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


something cruel. Yes, sir, Mister Jack, I’m going as fast 
as I can without sticking you. What a terrible place! 
And Mister Nikka ’as the stomach ache.” 

“He has worse than that, Watty,” said Hugh grimly. 
“Are the others all right?” 

“Yes, your ludship. Ah, Mister Jack, sir, there you 
are. One moment, sir, until I ’ave ’is ludship loose, and 
I’ll give you a bit of a rub.” He sawed away at Hugh’s 
ropes, while I slapped my cold legs with hands I could 
scarcely move. “Why, your ludship, when we came out¬ 
side we talked things over, and first off Professor King 7 e 
says that ’e’s going in. But I pointed out to ’im ’ow 
somebody should stay with the young lady, and as ’e was 
’er father and I was valet to your ludship, it was plain 
that ’e should stick by the launch, whilst I—” 

“Never mind any more,” Hugh cut him off, as he 
disposed of the last wrappings. “We can talk things over 
later. Help us to get our circulation back. Rub, man, 
rub! That’s it.” 

Presently we were able to walk stiffly. Our first con¬ 
cern was to lower Nikka into the drain. He was so weak 
that he took very little interest in the rescue. His initial 
flare of understanding was succeeded by a semi-stupor, 
and his tortured shoulder must have been agonizing, al¬ 
though he never complained. We had Watkins go down 
ahead of him, and Hugh and I, between us, eased him 
gently through the hole, and Watkins caught him around 
the waist and steadied him. My instinct was to follow 
them immediately, but Hugh checked me. 

“See here,” he said, “now that we’ve got this secret 
entrance, why do we need to let the enemy know of it?” 

“How do you mean?” I asked stupidly. 

“Can’t we cover up our tracks?” he pursued. “Here, 
Watty,” he called into the drain, “hand up that crowbar.” 

Watkins extended it, a look of alarm on his face. 

“I do ’ope, your ludship, you won’t run into another 
mess,” he remonstrated. “Best come along right away, 


WATKINS TO THE RESCUE 


221 


sir, before Tootoo and ’is friends twig what we’ve done. 
Really, yonr ludship—and I’ll need some one to ’elp me 
with Mister Nikka.” 

‘‘You get started,” returned Hugh. “We’ll be all right, 
but we have a job to do first. Get on. We’ll catch up 
with you.” 

Watkins retired, grumbling. 

“If you’ll permit me,” I said uneasily, “I’m inclined 
to think you are mad. Personally, I don’t hanker for Tou- 
tou’s attentions. We may lose this opportunity if—” 

“We won’t lose this opportunity,” answered Hugh, 
“and I hope we won’t lose the more valuable opportunity 
I’m looking for in the future. Help me break down the 
door.” 

Then I appreciated his plan. We worked the crowbar 
under the sill and between the jamb and the lintel, and 
with very little difficulty forced the door from its hinges. 
It was old, and although heavy, had warped and was 
poorly hung. As it came free, we caught it, and let it 
down gently on the floor. I crept out into the corridor 
and around a turn where a flight of stairs began. Nobody 
was in sight, but I heard a distant murmur of conversa¬ 
tion. To the left of the stairs a passage trended at right 
angles, with a slight upward grade, and I followed it 
until I came to a clumsy door of planks. I listened at its 
crack, but heard nothing, so I applied my crowbar and 
forced the rickety lock. Beyond this door stretched a 
vast cellar which underlay the structure of the House of 
the Married. 

I waited only to make sure that it was unoccupied, and 
then returned to the dungeon. Hugh had pushed the stone 
grating into position on the edge of the opening, leaving 
a space barely wide enough for us to slip through. We 
dropped down, and found that when we stood on the empty 
packing-box which Watty had fetched—for no special rea¬ 
son, as he afterwards admitted, except that he “thought 
he might want to reach up like”—with him we could 


222 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


exert the necessary strength, with the help of the crowbar, 
to pry the grating into its bed. 

We crept away after Nikka and Watkins, feeling light¬ 
hearted for the first time in twenty-four hours. Ahead 
of us Watkins’ electric torch shone palely on the slimy, 
moss-grown walls. We splashed in water over our ankles. 
Big black rats scuttled around us. But we were at liberty, 
and we licked our puffy lips with our swollen tongues at 
the thought of the dismay that our enemies would feel 
when they reentered the dungeon. 


CHAPTER XXII 


HILMl’s FRIEND 

N IKKA fainted as we reached the month of the 
drain, which was fortunate for him, as it saved 
him the agony of the slippery climb over the 
rocks of the beach and the ruined jetty to the Curlew. 
At its exit the drain or sewer was blocked by a heap of 
stones about four feet high across which it was difficult 
for men unhindered to pass in silence, let alone men carry¬ 
ing an inert body. But we achieved it finally, and stumbled 
as best we could on to the precarious footing of the jetty, 
The Curlew was simply a black shadow nestling against 
the rocks. 

As we approached, two figures jumped from the deck, 
and the slighter of them ran towards us. 

‘ ‘ Hugh! ’ ’ came the whispered call. ‘ ‘ Hugh, are you 
there? Are you safe? Who are you carrying, Jack? Is 
it— : ” 

I came first, holding Nikka’s feet. Hugh and Watkins, 
supporting his shoulders, were indistinguishable in the 
rear. It struck me as mildly humorous that Betty’s first 
anxiety should be so ingenuously revealed. 

“Hugh’s all right,” I answered cautiously. “Nikka’s 
hurt, though. Keep quiet, you idiot.” 

1 ‘ Thank God! ’ ’ she said inconsequentially, and sat down 
on the rocks and commenced to cry softly. 

Hugh exploded in a sentimental curse. 

“Here, Watty,” he growled, “you’ll have to manage 
by yourself.” 

“Very good, your ludship,” muttered Watkins. 

I felt Nikka’s body sag, and looked back. Watkins was 

223 


224 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


plodding determinedly after me, panting so loudly un¬ 
der his burden as to lead me to cast a wary eye at the 
lightless bulk of Tokalji’s house. Hugh and Betty had 
melted into a single shadow-figure from which came vague 
murmurs and gasped interjections. 

“Damn!” I grunted. “What a hell of a time to pick 
for making love!” 

“Quite right, Mister Tack, sir,” panted Watkins, 

We were both about done up, for Nikka was heavy and 
we had to use superhuman care to avoid jouncing or 
dropping him on the rocks. But luckily Yernon King 
reached us, and with his aid, we got Nikka into a bunk 
in the tiny cabin. Leaving King to take care of him, 
Watkins and I returned to the cockpit. I was fighting 
mad at Hugh for philandering and at Betty for picking 
such an occasion for tears. But my rage was not proof 
against the bubbling joy with which they greeted me as 
they hopped aboard. 

“Meet the new Lady Chesby,” whispered Hugh. 

“Did you ever hear of such a thing?” said Betty. 
“Why, I had no more idea when I climbed out on those 
rocks—” 

“No, I suppose not,” I jeered. “Well, children, let 
me tell you you chose a poor time for this. If you want 
my congratulations you must help us to make a quick get¬ 
away.” 

“He’s right,” agreed Betty, tearing herself loose from 
Hugh’s arm. “We are crazy. Jack, you loose the bow 
line. Watkins, are the sweeps ready? Prepare to cast 
off astern, Hugh.” 

Hugh and I were recouped with brandy and water and 
sandwiches, and fifteen minutes later, with the current 
to help us, we had worked out into the Marmora; and 
Betty judged it safe to have Watkins turn over the engine 
and switch on the lights. I am bound to say her first 
thought then was of Nikka. She put Watkins at the wheel. 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


225 


with orders to stand west at low speed, and ducked into 
the cabin with us. The electric bulb shone down on 
Nikka s white face beaded with sweat. His eyes were 
still closed. King had cut away his coat and shirt, and 
was bathing his head with water from the drinking-tank. 

“How is he?” asked Betty. 

“He has not recovered consciousness yet,” answered 
her father. “To tell the truth, I haven’t tried hard to 
bring him around. I fear his shoulder is dislocated.” 

Betty stooped over Nikka, and felt gingerly of arm and 
shoulder. 

“Yes,” she said, “it’s dislocated. I have seen disloca¬ 
tions pulled out in the hospitals during the War. I think 
I can get his shoulder back if some of you will hold him 
down. It is bound to hurt him cruelly for the moment.” 

She spoke with crisp authority; her face was all keen 
intelligence. And I chuckled at the contrast with the way 
in which she had come aboard with Hugh. 

“WeTl help,” Hugh told her now. “What do we do?” 

She stationed us, Hugh bearing down on his well shoul¬ 
der, Vernon King and I grasping each a leg. She took a 
deep breath, caught arm and shoulder in her strong young 
fingers, tugged, twisted with a wrench—a moan from 
Nikka, lying half-conscious—and there was an audible 
snap. Betty stepped back, flushed and trembling. 

“There,” she said, “it’s in place, but I wouldn’t do it 
again to-night for anything.” 

“Good girl,” I said. 

“That’s praise from Sir Hubert,” she acknowledged 
shyly. “Aren’t you ever going to congratulate me, Jack? 
Oh, Lordy, though, I’ve completely forgotten to tell 

Dad.” 

“But that’s quite usual, my dear,” said my uncle whim¬ 
sically. 

“Don’t be a cynic like Jack, old dear,” she rebuked 
him with a kiss. “You know I really have to tell you 


226 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


when I’m engaged. It happened very suddenly, and Jack 
blew me up for letting it interfere with business.’’ 

“I’m inclined to agree with him,” said King. “I sup¬ 
pose the young man concerned is Hugh.” 

Betty regarded him admiringly. 

“Why, Daddy! That’s awfully brilliant of you! 
However did you guess?” 

Her father pinched her ear. 

“Occasionally, Elizabeth,” he said, “you appear to 
labor under the misconception that I fail to take any note 
concerning the ordinary routine happenings of the day. 
But if you prefer, I will base my apprehension solely on 
analytical grounds. You leap ashore. You call for Hugh. 
You run towards him. You delay your reappearance. 
Immediately afterward you announce your engagement. 
I must maintain the sequence of causes prior to the effect 
presents an argument grounded on irreputable logic.” 

“You win on logical as well as mere human grounds, 
Vernon,” I said. “Bet, I congratulate you, minx though 
you are. If Nikka—” 

And at that moment Nikka opened his eyes, and sat up 
in the bunk, bumping his head. 

“Ouch!” he yelled. “Where am I? What—” 

He rubbed his shoulder reminiscently. 

“I’m sore all over, but I have a feeling it hurt worse 
a little while ago. How did I get here? And Hugh and 
Jack ?” 

So we recounted to him the full story of our rescue, 
which, in turn, necessitated chronicling our adventures of 
the past tw T enty-four hours for Betty and her father. 

“I imagined, of course, that a mishap such as you de¬ 
scribe had befallen you,” remarked King when we had 
finished. “When Nikka shouted his warning, Watkins and 
I held a hasty conference on the roof and decided that 
your adjuration must have had sufficient urgency behind it 
to warrant our obedience, however reluctant we might be 
to abandon you. Upon Watkins’ insistence, I preceded 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


227 


him down the rope. Prior to his own descent, he loosened 
the grapnel, with an eye to the possibility of twitching it 
down, so that when he was some eight or ten feet from 
the ground—my estimate, naturally, is hypothetical, as it 
was impossible to gain any clear view of his accident—the 
rope came free above, and he was precipitated into an 
opening in the rocks which we had not hitherto perceived. 

“I may say that we later determined in the daylight 
that it w T as practically invisible from the adjacent waters, 
and the hasty investigation I was able to make on my own 
behalf leads me to the provisional conclusion that we have 
stumbled upon a genuine archaeological find. The ancient 
Byzantium, as you doubtless know, was a city vying with 
our modern capitals in comfort and hygienic convenience, 
and its drainage system must have been—” 

“Yes, yes, Daddy/’ interrupted Betty, “but you are 
telling about last night, not the ancient Byzants.” 

“Byzantines, my dear,” corrected her father. “The 
Byzant was the standard coin of value of the Eastern 
Empire, indeed, of the known world.” 

“A thousand pardons, old sweetheart, but still, don’t 
you see, you’ve left the boys high and dry? Here, you’d 
better let me carry on.” 

“Very well,” answered King with the docility acquired 
by any man who spends much time in Betty’s company. 
“Perhaps your narrative gifts will secure a more rapid 
description of our adventures, Elizabeth.” 

“It’s not my ‘narrative gifts,’ darling Dad. It’s that 
I can stick to the path. You see, boys, I heard Watkins 
squawk when he fell. The only reason Toutou and his 
friends didn’t hear him was that they were so busy with 
you. I left the boat and scrambled over the rocks— 
nearly scared Dad to death. He thought I was an enemy. 
Watkins had disappeared into this opening. He had slid 
over the rock-pile that fills it to within three or four feet 
of the top, and he bumped his head badly. He thought 
he was in a cave, and I made Dad get in after him and 


228 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


look around with a flashlight. So long as the rope and 
grapnel had come down, there was no way for Toutou’s 
gang to trace us, and I was wondering whether we couldn’t 
make future use of a hiding-place almost in the enemy’s 
camp.” 

“I say, that was clever of you!” said Hugh admiringly. 

We all chuckled, but Betty thanked him with a 
smile. 

“Oh, I was a little heroine,” she continued. “No movie 
heroine could have surpassed me. Dad took a look, and 
announced that it was one of the old sewers, and seemed 
to run inland beneath Tokalji’s house. He wanted to fol¬ 
low it all the way in, but I decided there would be no op¬ 
portunity for a rescue that night, and I made him and 
Watkins come back to the Curlew with me. We ran the 
launch to the wharf of a Greek fisherman I know on the 
Asiatic shore of the Marmora. Fie agreed to take us up 
to Constantinople in his boat, and to wait there for us 
all day to carry us back. 

“We discussed the problem going up to Constantinople, 
and we couldn’t think of anything to do for you, short of 
going in ourselves and setting you free. We didn’t know 
how to get into touch with Nikka’s uncle and his Gypsy 
friends. Manifestly, we didn’t want to tell the police or 
the British authorities—although we would have done that 
if we had been unable to get to you to-night. Watkins said 
that ‘treasure or no treasure ’e wasn’t going to see ’is 
ludship butchered like ’is uncle, whatever ’is ludship might 
say any time.’ Oh, Watkins was lyrical, Hugh.” 

“He’s done damned good work,” assented Hugh grate¬ 
fully. “Bless his old heart. So you just went up to Con¬ 
stantinople, and lay doggo?” 

“Just that. We slept most of the day, and after din¬ 
ner sneaked away, and boarded the Greek fisherman’s 
ketch. We took the Curlew about ten, I think, and steered 
straight for Tokalji’s house. And oh, Hugh, if there 
hadn’t been that opening from your dungeon!” The tears 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


229 


came into her eyes. “To think what Nikka had to stand! 
And you others would have had it, too. ’ ’ 

“If there hadn’t been that there would have been some¬ 
thing else, ’ Hugh reassured her. “And now we have a 
secret way to follow direct into Tokalji’s lair.” 

“But after you get in you will have a pitched battle 
before you can control the place,” Nikka pointed out. 
“I don’t see that you are likely to profit very much by 
it unless you are willing to put the issue to the proof by 
cold steel.” 

There was no gainsaying this argument, and none of us 
was inclined to advocate wholesale slaughter, not even 
Nikka, with his aching shoulder and memory of Toutou’s 
brutality. We had hashed over the subject pretty thor¬ 
oughly by the time the Curlew was docked, without dis¬ 
covering a solution of our problem, and from sheer weari¬ 
ness abandoned the discussion by mutual consent. It was 
too late to find one of the variable Pera taxis, and we 
walked up through the deserted streets of Galata, tenanted 
only by homeless refuges. In the hotel lobby we said good¬ 
night—it was really good-morning—and went to bed to 
sleep the clock around. 

Twenty-four hours rest made us fit. Nikka’s arm and 
shoulder were still lame, but he had Watkins rub him with 
liniment that suppled the strained muscles, and declared 
that he was as game for a fight as any of us. And when 
Watkins brought us an invitation to breakfast in the 
Kings’ sitting room we were able to muster a degree of 
optimism, despite the difficulties of the situation. 

“It boils down to this,” said Hugh over his second cup 
of coffee. “We know that the Instructions are correct 
and that we have a desperate crew of criminals to reckon 
with. Our job is to trick Toutou’s crowd.” 

“But how?” I asked. 

“Ah, that’s the question!” 

“You can’t trick them,” snapped Nikka. “They are 
as clever as we.” 




230 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Then what can you do?” demanded Betty. 

“Exterminate them.” 

“Your proposal, Nikka, seems somewhat—er—shall I say 
savage?” objected Vernon King. 

“We are fighting savages,” retorted Nikka swiftly. “I 
still feel as I did last night that I don’t want to risk any 
of our lives, treasure or no treasure, beyond what is es¬ 
sential to our safety. But the fact remains there is but 
one kind of treatment those people will understand. They 
are clever, remorseless, merciless. You can—” 

There was a knock on the door. Watkins answered it. 
His back stiffened as he peered through the crack. 

“A moment, if you please, sir,” he said coldly, re- 
fastened the door and turned to us. 

“Mr. Tlyer would like a word with your ludship.” 

Hugh rose, his jaw set. 

“I’ll talk to him outside,” he said. 

Watkins reopened the door, and bowed him out. We 
heard his first icy words: 

“To what am I indebted for this—” 

The door closed behind him, and we looked at each other, 
startled, uneasy. Nobody said anything. We were 
all thinking of the conversation going on in the corri¬ 
dor. 

The tense silence lasted for perhaps five minutes. Then 
the door was reopened, and Hugh entered. 

“Hilyer wants to talk terms,” he announced. “In the 
circumstances, I didn’t feel that w r e could afford to over¬ 
look any chance, and I have arranged that four of us will 
meet four of his crowd at Hilmi’s house at three this after¬ 
noon.” 

“I don’t trust the dog,” I said immediately. “Why go 
to Hilmi’s house ? Why couldn’t he talk here ? ’ ’ 

“He said the only way he could prove that he has a 
certain trick up his sleeve would be for us to go there. 
He also pointed out that we need have no fear of treachery, 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


231 


as we only needed to leave word behind us where we were 
going.” 

“Why parties of four?” asked Nikka. 

“Obviously, we couldn’t take Betty,” answered Hugh, 
“and one of us ought to stay with her.” 

“If Toutou is there I shall kill him on sight,” warned 
Nikka. 

“I told Hilyer we drew the line at that beast. Besides 
Hilyer and Hilmi, there will be only Helene de Cespedes 
and Serge Vassilievich.” 

“Humph, I still don’t see why we should go out of our 
way to talk to them,” I grumbled. 

“Hilyer seemed in a reasonable frame of mind,” argued 
Hugh. “He said his crowd are sick of the whole business, 
that they as well as we are wasting time, and that we might 
as well compromise.” 

‘ ‘ I hope you have no such idea in your head, ’ ’ exclaimed 
Betty. “You couldn’t trust them, in any event.” 

“No, I haven’t—not yet, anyway,” returned Hugh. “I 
told Hilyer we had no reason to be discouraged, but he 
just grinned. He said it was a stalemate. What I am 
after is to feel out the enemy’s position.” 

None of us could think up a valid reason for objecting 
to Hugh’s strategy, so it was agreed that he, Vernon King, 
Nikka and myself should keep the appointment at Hilmi’s 
house. Betty said that she would take Watkins and go 
for a sail in the Curlew, and we all approved her plan be¬ 
cause we considered her safest on the water. 

After luncheon we escorted Betty and Watkins to the 
Man-o’-war Dock, saw them off and then walked through 
Pera to Hilmi’s house in the Rue Midhat Pasha. It was 
a handsome residence in the French style. As we ap¬ 
proached it from the corner, a big automobile halted in 
front of the entrance, and Hilmi, himself, appeared in the 
doorway, ushering out a stout personage, whose frock- 
coat, fez and predatory visage proclaimed the Turkish of- 


232 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


ficial. The man scarcely glanced at us, merely climbed 
into his machine and drove away. Hilmi, awaiting us 
on the doorstep, rubbed his hands together, with an oily 
smirk of satisfaction. 

“Your servant, gentlemen/’ he said, with mock humility. 
“Did you happen to recognize my guest who departed as 
you arrived?” 

“No,” replied Hugh curtly. 

Hilmi had a peculiar effect on you. He was a rat. You 
didn’t so much hate him or desire to kill him as you did 
hanker to kick him or stamp on him. 

He saw this, and his smirk became a sour grimace. 

“Follow me,” he snarled. 

"We passed through a square hall, carpeted and hung 
with gorgeous Persian, Bokharan and Chinese rugs, into 
a salon which was a bizarre combination of rickety French 
period furniture and priceless, solid Oriental stuff. The 
rugs, as in the hall, were worth a fortune by themselves. 
Hilyer, Helene and Serge Vassilievich were lounging on 
a couch, smoking cigarettes and talking in low tones. The 
men rose as we came in, Hilyer with a swagger, the Rus¬ 
sian with a frown that presently focussed on my face— 
it seemed he had never forgotten or forgiven the beating 
I gave him in the Gunroom at Chesby. 

Helene lay back against a pile of cushions, languorously 
at ease, beautiful as a tigress, a pleasant smile curving 
her faultless lips. Other than the smile, she made no move 
to greet us. 

“Sit down, won’t you?” said Hilyer, automatically tak¬ 
ing charge. “Glad you came. Cigarettes? Cocktail? 
I assure you quite all right; taste ’em myself, if you like. 
No? Right 0! Did they see your friend, Hilmi?” 

“He—” Hilmi pointed a finger at Chesby—“says he 
did not know him.” 

“Ah!” Hilyer lighted a fresh cigarette. “Don’t take 
my word for it, you chaps, but that man was Youssouf 
Mahkouf Pasha, who is popularly known in this part of 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


233 


the world as ‘The Grand Vizier’s Jackal.’ You probably 
do not see why you should be interested in him and his 
presence here to-day. The fact is, however, that his visit 
to this house was timed so that you should have an op¬ 
portunity to see him. We particularly desired you to see 
him, knowing that you—ah—” he smiled agreeably— 
“might be inclined to doubt the veracity of whatever we 
said to you. 

“To cut a long story short, Mahkouf Pasha is a par¬ 
ticular pal of our fellow club-member, Hilmi. I don’t 
mind lettin’ you in on it that they’ve been in several deals 
together. Now, we owe you a bit on account. Last night, 
for instance. But I gather that you yourselves aren’t able 
to ride clear on the strength of it.” 

He paused, and Hugh caught him up. 

“You have no right to suppose that,” Hugh retorted 
sharply. “We aren’t asking terms. You are.” 

“I notice you aren’t refusing to discuss terms,” said 
Hilyer with a glint in his eye. 

Vassilievich jerked a remark which we could not under¬ 
stand from the corner of his mouth, but Hilyer waved it 
aside. 

“Go at the narrow ditch first, Serge. There’ll be plenty 
of time for the water-jump. I’m not tryin’ to bluff you 
and your friends, Chesby. I don’t have to. As I told you 
this morning, I have an ace in my sleeve. Bein’ a gam¬ 
bler, that’s my habit.” 

“So I’ve heard,” said Hugh with cutting emphasis. 

Hilyer never changed color, only eyed him curiously. 

“You do get down on a fellow, don’t you?” he com¬ 
mented. “As you know by now, there’s but one way to 
dust me. You tried it once, and I haven’t forgotten. 
I’ve a convenient memory of my own. 

“Well, never mind. The fact is, you are stumped just 
as much as w r e are. We are plugging around the course, 
and neither one of us can jockey a horse clear of the field, 
[t’s damn nonsense. Gets nobody anywhere. Sensible 


234 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


thing to do is to lay cards on the table, and make a deal. ’* 

“Put down your hand,” said Hugh evenly. 

“The treasure is somewhere around Tokalji’s house,” 
answered Hilyer promptly. “That’s certain. To get to 
it you’ve got to get into Tokalji’s house. What’s more, 
you’ve got to be able to stay a while in Tokalji’s house. 
And you can’t do it. You haven’t got a chance of doing 
it! But let’s suppose a miracle happened, and you found 
the chance.” He dropped his cigarette, and leaned for¬ 
ward, driving his clenched fist into his palm to emphasize 
every word. “Still, we’ve got you stopped. How? Hil- 
mi’s friend, Mahkouf Pasha. We’ve made arrangements 
with him, whereby in the event that we give up hope of 
any better deal, we denounce you and your treasure to 
him. He will then convey the information to the Imperial 
Government, and in return for his public service and for 
our assistance, he and we will be presented with a stipulated 
percentage of the treasure, as recovered.” 

He sat back on the couch, and crossed his knees. 

11 Those are good cards, providing they are played right, ’ ’ 
Hugh admitted. “But how is the Imperial Government 
going to secure the treasure’s location from us?” 

“If they don’t secure the information, nevertheless you 
won’t get the treasure. To be quite plain with you, our 
plan, in the event of the contingency I have outlined, would 
be to give you an opportunity to get to the treasure be¬ 
fore calling in the Government.” 

“Yes, that would be the way to do it,” said Hugh, nod¬ 
ding impersonally. “What’s your proposition?” 

“Seventy-five per cent, to us, twenty-five per cent, to 
you.” 

Hugh laughed. 

“I thought you wanted to talk business,” he jeered. 

Helene tossed away her cigarette. 

“You’re playing it too fine, Montey,” she remarked. 
“Will you talk on a fifty-fifty basis, Lord Chesby?” 


HILMI’S FRIEND 


235 


Hugh turned to her. 

“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “I want to think it 
over. I’ll admit that by calling in the Turkish Govern¬ 
ment, you could stall me—and yourselves. But how can I 
trust you ? What guarantees can you give us ? ” 

“No guarantees we could give you would be binding,” 
she answered with an insolent smile. “What’s more, we 
don’t have to give guarantees. We hold the whip-hand. 
You’ve no alternative but to trust us. As to thinking it 
over—” she flung a glance at Hilyer, who nodded—“come 
back to-morrow. We’ll give you that long.” 

“I’ll take as long as I choose,” returned Hugh, with a 
flash of temper—he, like the rest of us, was becoming rest¬ 
ive under the realization that they did hold the whip- 
hand. “And understand me, I mean what I say when I 
tell you that any compromise between us will be based on 
what we consider satisfactory guarantees.” 

Hilyer yawned lazily. 

“Don’t like it, do you? Doesn’t feel comfortable to be 
spurred. Well, suit yourselves. So far as we are con¬ 
cerned, remember, we’d rather come to terms with you. 
We stand to get more out of you than from the Turkish 
Government. But if you try to trick us we won’t be 
beyond denouncing you, even at the cost of losing any 
share at all.” 

His teeth clicked and his drawl became a measured 
threat. 

“Incidentally, this is not the only ace we have up our 
sleeve. Our terms will be stiffer to-morrow than they are 
to-day, and progressively so from then on.” 

“That goes,” added Helene de Cespedes, rearing her 
lithe body erect, all pretense of languor gone. “That’s 
legal tender, Lord Chesby. You people are backing a los¬ 
ing game. The cards are stacked against you. You lose, 
no matter what you do. ’ ’ 

“We’ll see about that,” said Hugh, rising, a spot of 


236 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


red on each cheek bone the one sign of the white-hot anger 
that seethed within him. 

‘ 1 Must you go ? ” asked Hilyer, his drawl resumed. ‘ ‘ Au 
Voir, then. Hilmi, will you see ’em out?” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


OUR BACKS TO THE WALL 

TT ILMI BEY bowed us out, his smirk more tigerish 

I - 1 than ever. It seemed to us that he had a perfect 

JL JL right to enjoy our departure. We felt that we 
had come off distinctly second-best. 

“Score for them,” remarked Hugh, as we shook the 
dust of the Rue Midhat Pasha from our shoes. “We’re 
chivvied, dished.” 

“They won’t do it,” I objected. “And if they did, it 
wouldn’t get them anywhere.” 

“You’re right,” assented Hugh. “But there’s the de¬ 
lay. This is expensive, Jack, and we can’t hang on for¬ 
ever. If we could wear them out, why—” 

“You are both wrong!” exclaimed Nikka energetically. 
“You must remember that you are in Constantinople. 
Things don’t happen here as they do in Europe.” 

“Constantinople is in Europe,” I objected—and 
promptly felt like the fool the remark demonstrated me to 
be. 

Nikka favored me with a withering glance of contempt. 

“We are not talking in terms of geography, but of human 
nature,” he said. “This is the Orient. You ought to 
realize that, Jack, after what you have seen with me. And 
in the Orient, and especially in Turkey, such a graft deal 
as Hilyer made with Mahkouf Pasha would not excite any 
interest, much less condemnation. It’s the regular thing.” 

“You forget the Allied High Commissioners,” inter¬ 
jected King. 

“No, I don’t. They can go only just so far. Their posi¬ 
tion is delicate enough, without imperiling their prestige 

237 







238 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


by interfering in what would be strictly a question of 
Turkish internal government. They’d know that a wind¬ 
fall such as this treasure would be used simply to further 
Pan-Islamic intrigue and bolster the coffers of the Na¬ 
tionalist Government at Angora. But for that very reason 
they wouldn’t be able to interfere. I tell you, it would 
be the height of bad luck for us if the struggle for the 
treasure took on a political tinge. It would be fatal. 
We might as well pack up, and go home.” 

‘ ‘ Guess you ’re right, ’ ’ assented Hugh thoughtfully. ‘ ‘ It 
looks as though we were pocketed.” 

“What puzzles me is why they didn’t try something like 
this before,” continued Nikka. “I fancy they wanted to 
be very sure of their man first.” 

“Surely, they won’t have told him!” protested King. 

“Who? Mahkouf? Oh, no. They’re too wise. No, 
they’ve simply explained to him the general proposition 
and arranged tentative terms. They won’t trust him any 
farther than they have to.” 

“Is it your idea that we’ve got to accept their offer?” 
asked Hugh. 

“It’s my idea that we’ve got to use our wits, and acl 
quickly,” said Nikka. 

“But you can’t trust them,” I cried. “Helene as much 
as told you so. We’d get the stuff out—” 

“If it’s there,” Hugh reminded me. 

“—if it’s there, then, and they would think nothing of 
jumping us, either by force or by some damned trick.” 

“They might even stage a fake hold-up on the part of 
a Government agency,” Nikka added cheerfully. 

“In plain language, their proposition is: heads we win 
tails you lose,” said Hugh. 

“Yes, supposing you permit them to take the lead from 
your hands,” agreed Nikka. “However, I am reminded 
of a memorable address I was once privileged to listen tc 
as a soldier of the Legion. A general named Foch read 


OUR BACKS TO THE WALL 


239 


us a citation, and then told us how to go on winning more. 
‘I have noticed,’ he said, ‘that it is the soldier who at¬ 
tacks who wins battles. The initiative is the price of 
victory. Never permit your foe to assume the initiative. 
Attack! Always attack!’ ” 

“True,” assented Hugh. “And we’ve been able to stall 
their gang so far by taking the initiative.” 

“But if we can’t?” inquired King. “Optimism is all 
right, but—” 

“Optimism is all we’ve got,” interrupted Nikka. “We 
have our backs to the wall. This is the time to fight, if 
fighting will get us anywhere.” 

“If it will!” echoed Hugh. 

“That’s what we have to decide,” said Nikka. “You 
can’t work out a problem like this in the street.” 

We walked the remainder of the distance to the hotel 
at a breakneck gait. As we entered the lobby one of the 
clerks came from the office and accosted Hugh. 

“Your messenger would not wait, milord,” he said. 
“Mees King had not returned. Indeed, she has not yet re¬ 
turned.” 

“My messenger?” repeated Hugh, with a startled look 
at us. 

“Yes, milord. He said he must see her. When I told 
heem she had gone out he left your letter for her, weeth 
instructions that I present it so soon as she came in.” 

Hugh’s face creased into grim lines. 

“Very well. As long as she has not yet returned, I will 

take it back.” 

The clerk went to the mail-desk, and plucked an en¬ 
velope from Betty’s letter-box. Hugh thanked him, and 
turned it over in his hand. It was addressed in an extraor¬ 
dinarily scrawling hand to “Miss King.” In ^the lower 
left-hand corner was written: “By messenger.” 

“But it looks nothing like your handwriting,” exclaimed 
King. “I am at a loss to comprehend how persons so 


240 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


adroit as our opponents have demonstrated themselves to 
be could hope to secure success by means of such a shallow 
trick.” 

“We’ll see,” returned Hugh brusquely, slitting the en¬ 
velope. “I have a notion this is the other ace Hilyer 
bragged about.” 

The envelope held a single sheet of paper. On it was 
written in the same scrawling hand: 

“Dear Bet: 

“I’ve broken my arm, which explains this abominable writing. 
I never could do anything with my left hand. Don’t worry, 
I shall be fit in no time. Can you come with the bearer, or if 
that is not convenient, with Watkins, to the house in Sokaki 
Masyeri? It’s important. Can’t write any more. 

“Hugh.” 

“P. 6. The others are all right. The bearer can’t wait.” 

11 Can you beat that! ” I gasped. 

“Exceedingly ingenious,” murmured King. “Dear me, 
how fortunate it was that we returned when we did.” 

“We mustn’t leave anything to chance, though,” said 
Nikka quickly: “You can’t tell what other steps they 
may have taken to trap her. We had better go down to 
the dock at once.” 

Hugh glanced at the clock. 

“Yes, she’d hardly be back yet,” he muttered. “One 
moment. I’ll leave word at the desk that she is not to go 
out, no matter what message she may receive, until we 
return.” 

He rejoined us at the door, and we all entered a taxi 
which Nikka had impounded. Nobody said anything, but 
while we were jolting into Galata Hugh produced his 
automatic, and make sure it contained a full clip. At the 
dock there was no sign of the Curlew, and the late after¬ 
noon sunlight failed to reveal her stubby little hull amongst 
the shipping in the Golden Horn. None of the dock at¬ 
tendants had seen the launch or anything of Betty or 


OUR BACKS TO THE WALL 


241 


Watkins since we had waved good-by to them before three 
o ’clock. 

We waited a while, thinking they might show up, but 
after six o’clock King became nervous and persuaded us 
to return to the hotel. There, too, there was no word of 
them, and we began to worry in earnest. Dusk was com¬ 
ing on rapidly, and it was not like Betty to protract her 
cruise so late, although she was fully capable of navigat¬ 
ing after dark, with the help of Watkins, or, for that 
matter, without his help. 

We taxied to the dock a second time. The Curlew was 
nowhere to be seen. 

“ Perhaps it would be advisable to hire a boat and search 
for them in the Marmora,” suggested King. “Their en¬ 
gine may have broken down.” 

“We had better not split our forces,” Nikka objected. 

“Engine trouble would never bother Betty,” Hugh said. 
“Still, I don’t like it.” 

“We are probably worrying about nothing,” I said. 
“After all, it was a blessing in disguise that she stayed 
out so late. It insured against her being caught by that 
note in case we hadn’t intercepted it.” 

“I’m not interested in ‘if’ and ‘had,’ ” snapped Hugh. 
“I don’t like this delay. Those devils of Toutou’s are 
capable of having an extra trick in reserve.” 

“I vote we go back to the hotel,” proposed Nikka; 
“maybe I can pick up one of my Gypsies. We could start 
them out on the trail.” 

Nikka’s suggestion did not make anybody any happier. 
It indicated that he, like the rest of us, was commencing 
to take the situation more seriously than he cared to admit 
openly. But we climbed into the smelly taxi for the fourth 
time, and were jounced up to Pera. The hotel people re¬ 
garded us with some amazement when Vernon King again 
inquired for his daughter. No, she had not returned. Was 
anything wrong? 

King hesitated, looked at us. It was hard to know what 


242 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


to say. Something might be wrong. And yet the chances 
were that the only thing wrong was a cranky motor. We 
didn’t want publicity. We couldn’t afford to attract un¬ 
necessary attention. Our party was sufficiently conspicu¬ 
ous, as it was, and was taken for granted and let alone 
largely because it included an American millionaire 
archaeologist and an English milord, both of whom, by 
all the rules of the Orient, were naturally assumed to be 
harmless lunatics. 

“No,” he answered at length, “I think not. My daugh¬ 
ter has a reliable servant with her. I am simply anxious 
for her return.” 

The hotel management were all sympathy. Monsieur 
need not worry. Let him dine in comfort. The instant 
Mademoiselle returned or word of her arrived he should 
be apprised. In the meantime, why concern himself un¬ 
necessarily ? 

“They’re right,” said Hugh as we grouped in the lobby, 
canvassing our next step. “We’ve had a hard day, and 
we need food. Let’s eat. By the way, Nikka, did you see 
your Gypsies?” 

“No, and if anything much had gone wrong, I think— 
at least, there’s a strong probability—they would spot it 
sooner or later and report to me.” 

“Obviously, we have done all we can for the present,” 
said Vernon King. “Hugh’s suggestion is a good one. 
Perhaps food and a rest will sharpen our wits.” 

We went to the Kings’ sitting room, where we had break¬ 
fasted that morning, and sat down wearily, discouraged, 
disheartened, more than a little dismayed. But as my 
uncle had said, food and wine and black coffee brightened 
our despondency. We were on the point of deciding that 
the best policy would be to risk dividing forces, sending 
Hugh and Vernon King on a chartered boat to scour 
near-by waters, while Nikka and I attempted to investigate 
Sokaki Masyeri, when Watkins entered unannounced. 

He was very pale. His collar was streaked with blood. 


OUR BACKS TO THE WALL 


243 


There was an ugly bump on the side of his head. He 
dragged one foot after the other. 

“Oh, your ludship,” he murmured, and dropped into 
a chair. 

At once he strove to regain his feet, but collapsed again. 

“I beg pardon, I’m sure, your ludship—no disrespect 
intended—fair dead beat I am, sir—my ’ead and all—” 

Hugh seized a glass of champagne and carried it to 
him, holding the glass to his lips. 

‘Where is—” Hugh’s tongue boggled Betty’s name. 

“They—they’ve—took ’er, your ludship,” answered 
Watkins faintly. 

“How? Where? Is she alive?” 

King sprang from his chair, wringing his hands. 

‘ ‘ Oh, my God! She is all I have! What has happened ? 
Where is she? Please tell me!” 

“Wait a minute,” said Nikka quietly. “He’s all in. 
Give him food and some more to drink. That’s right, 
Jack. There’s a bottle of whiskey over there. Pour a 
stiff dram into a cup of coffee, Hugh.” 

With stimulants to help him, and a cold cloth on his 
head, Watkins regained control of himself. 

“It ’appened so quick I don’t rightly know ’ow it was,” 
he said. “We ’ad run out beyond the Princes Islands, and 
I saw there was little shipping around, your ludship and 
gentlemen. And then there was a fishing-boat with power 
bore down on us. Miss Betty and I, we didn’t think any¬ 
thing about it until ’e was right on us. Even then we 
thought they’d only lost control of their rudder like. 
But when they bumped us and tumbled aboard I knew 
they wasn’t up to no good, your ludship. 

“Miss Betty reached for ’er gun, and so did I. But 
somebody grabbed ’er, and somebody else pushed me over, 
at the same a chap lashed at me with an iron-weighted 
club. ’E thought ’e’d knocked my brains out, and ’e 
would, too, except I fell so fast on account of bein’ pushed, 
I was under the level of the rail when the club ’it me and 


244 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


most of the blow went into the rail. Splintered it, it did, 
your ludship. And but for that I wouldn’t be ’ere.” 

“And Miss Betty?” questioned Hugh eagerly. 

“I don’t know, your ludship. When I saw anything 
again I was lyin’ on the floor of the cockpit, dusk was 
coming on and the launch was drifted far out to sea. 
They’d stopped the engine. I don’t know ’ow I got back 
’ere. My ’ead went round and round. But I thought if 
I could get to you, your ludship and gentlemen, maybe 
we could think of something else to do. Just give me 
a chance to lay my ’ands on that ’ere Tootoo! I’ll bash 
’is ’ead for ’im.” 

“They did have a spare trick ready,” commented Nikka. 
“Our visit to Hilmi was part of a plot to get hold of Betty. 
You see, they would have caught her, whether she had 
gone sailing or not.” 

“You said this afternoon we had our hack to the wall,” 
said Hugh. “You were right. They’ve licked us. Our 
only chance is to clean them up.” 

The room-telephone rang. King answered it. 

“Send him up,” he said. And to Nikka: “A Gypsy 
asking for you.” 

“That will be Wasso Mikali,” cried Nikka. “He must 
have learned something. I thought he would. Don’t be 
downhearted, Hugh. This hand is a long way from be¬ 
ing played out. It is as I thought all along; we have got 
to meet savagery with savagery. It is a case of kill or 
be killed.” 

“But Betty!” exclaimed Vernon King. “Think of her! 
What will they—” 

“I am thinking of her,” retorted Nikka. “If we hope 
to rescue her we must strike hard. Give them time, let 
them strengthen their position—and she will go to some 
harem in Anatolia or to a procurer in Salonika. I tell 
you, I know. We are dealing with men and women who 
have no mercy, who fight like animals, who are animals. 


OUR BACKS TO THE WALL 


245 


Well, from now on, Nikka Zaranko will meet them on their 
own ground.” 

There was a knock on the door. Wasso Mikali entered, 
his garish Gypsy dress in striking contrast to the Western 
furnishings and our own conventional garments. 

“I greet you, son of my sister,” he said calmly. “My 
young men, watching in Sokaki Masyeri this evening, be¬ 
held Tokalji’s party carry in a bundle in a sack, which 
was a body. I have hastened that you should know it.” 

Nikka clasped his hand. 

“It is well, my uncle. I thank you for the news. This 
is the night of blood of which I have spoken. We shall 
all dip our blades before the sun rises to-morrow.” 

“My heart is glad,” replied Wasso Mikali, with flash¬ 
ing eyes. “My young men’s knives are eager. Their 
hands are ready. What is the plan?” 

Nikka turned to us. 

“I must go with my people,” he said. “Hugh, do you 
and Jack think you could keep the gang in play by a 
surprise attack through the drain? That would give us 
a chance to force the street-entrance, and we should have 
them between two fires.” 

“And where am I going to be?” demanded Vernon King 
indignantly. 

“This will be a nasty affair, Professor,” returned Nikka. 
“You ought to stay out. We are younger men, and we 
are used to this kind of thing.” 

“Betty is my daughter, and I am as able to fight for 
her as any of you,” answered King. “I know how to 
handle a pistol.” 

“We ought not to refuse you, you know,” said Hugh. 
“Every man is going to count.” 

“I certainly expect to be counted,” replied King. 

“Me, too, your ludship and Mister Nikka, sir,” spoke 
up Watty, lunging to his feet. “Yes, I will, gentlemen. 
You give me another glass of that ’ere whiskey or arak 


246 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 

or whatever you call it, and I’ll fight ’em all by myself. 
Yes, I will. And I guess I can swing a crowbar, if I ’ave 
got a bump on my ’ead. Let me at ’em, gentlemen, only 
let me. That’s all I ask.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


IN THE STORM 

I T was beginning to rain when we left the hotel, with 
occasional peals of thunder; but we welcomed the 
change in the weather as a factor aiding the surprise 
attack we had intended. At the Galata end of the Lower 
Bridge, which was deserted as usual after dark, we dis¬ 
missed our taxi, and held a final brief council of war in 
a patch of shadows next the bridge abutment. King, 
Hugh, Watkins and I were to embark on the Curleiv, while 
Nikka and Wasso Mikali tramped to the Khan of the 
Georgians and rallied Mikali*s six young men. Then they 
were to go to Sokaki Masyeri, and wait for a pistol-shot, 
which would be the signal that we had passed through 
the drain and were at grips with the enemy. Hugh and 
Nikka compared watches and agreed that we should be in 
Tokalji’s house not later than half-past ten. 

The rain let up as we shook hands and wished each 
other luck, but by the time the Curlew was chugging down 
the Golden Horn it had set in again with tripled violence, 
lashed on by a northeast gale. At intervals broad splotches 
of lightning bathed the city to our right in a ghastly 
greenish glow. And when we emerged into the Bosphorus 
we found a fairly high sea running, but the launch 
sturdily thrust her bow into the waves and rode buoy¬ 
antly over them. We cautiously felt our way along, 
lights out, motor running at half-speed, taking bearings 
whenever the jagged lightning streaks illuminated the 

waters. 

I was worried by the frequency of the lightning dis¬ 
plays, but fortunately, as we sighted the round tower 

247 


248 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


on the walls, which was our first landmark for Tokalji’s 
house, there was a lull in the storm. We were also favored 
in having the old sea-walls act as a lee for us as we worked 
in closer to shore. The waves moderated, and the fish¬ 
hook curve of the ruined jetty broke their remaining 
force. When Watkins had made fast bow and stern lines 
to a couple of masses of battered masonry the Curlew 
floated almost as easily as at her moorings by the Man-o- 
war Dock. But the difficulties of navigation in the dark¬ 
ness and the necessity for extreme care had slowed our 
progress, and we were some minutes behind our sched¬ 
ule. 

The rocks of the jetty, too, were awash, and it was as 
much as your life was worth to slip, for a fall might mean 
a broken head or limb. At one point, indeed, several of us 
lost the jetty altogether and were obliged to swim half- 
a-dozen strokes to the beach. Watkins, who insisted on 
arming himself with a crowbar, would have drowned if 
Hugh had not hauled him in by the scuff of the neck. It 
was impossible to see anything, except once when a light¬ 
ning flash streaked the sky and struck with a stunning 
report in Scutari across the Straits. And then we were 
so afraid of being discovered that we froze stiff as close 
to the rocks as possible. 

The beach, like the jetty, was under water. The waves 
lapped up to the foot of the walls, and we stumbled des¬ 
perately over submerged rocks and bowlders. Watkins, 
just ahead of me in line, tripped, and very nearly knocked 
my brains out with his infernal crowbar. I begged him 
to drop it, but he doggedly refused. 

“I’m no knife-fighter, Mister Jack, sir,” he said, “and 
I’m intending to give the persons that ’it me a taste of 
their own stew like.” 

We identified the opening of the sewer by the hollow, 
booming sound with which, every now and then, an un¬ 
usually high wave would roll over its lip. It sounded 
like the beating of a watery bass-drum. The rain was 


IN THE STORM 


249 


driving down again, and the wind blew overhead with a 
shrill vehemence that was deafening. 

“We’ll never be able to get through that ’ell-’ole to¬ 
night, Mister Jack, sir,” screamed Watkins in my ear. 
“We’ll be drowned along with the rats.” 

I was somewhat of Watty’s opinion, myself, but man¬ 
aged to placate him. Hugh, without any hesitation, 
yelled: 1 ‘ One at a time! ’ ’ and slipped into the sewer 

mouth between two waves. King followed him, and Watty 
and I brought up the rear. We were cheered to find the 
place less terrifying than we had imagined it. The water 
was thigh-deep, instead of knee-deep, as it had been when 
we escaped from the dungeon; but once you had fumbled 
your way by torch-light over the jagged moraine that 
blocked the first thirty feet, the footing became safer and 
the water shallowed. 

Just the same, I never think of the place without 
shuddering. It was deathly silent, except for the cease¬ 
less seepage of moisture, the occasional muffled boom of a 
wave spattering over its mouth and the squeaking of the 
gigantic black rats that swam ahead of us or wriggled into 
cracks in the serried courses of the masonry. Our electric 
torches shone feebly on the mossy walls, with their sicken¬ 
ing fungus growths, their bright green, pendent weeds. 
Amorphous plants hung from the roof. The atmosphere 
was slimy, noisome, unclean. And always there was the 
“drip-drip-drip” of water. 

We breathed more comfortably when our torches re¬ 
vealed overhead the bars of the stone grating in the floor 
of the dungeon. 

“All quiet above,” whispered Hugh, after listening in¬ 
tently. “Dark as hell, too. I say, how much farther do 
you suppose this drain goes?” 

He trained his torch into the thick murk of the immense 
tube which extended beyond the grating as far as our eyes 
could penetrate. 

“I’m inclined to believe it continues into the city, prob- 


250 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


ably as far as the site of the Forum of Theodosius/ 5 
King replied, his scholar’s interest awake. “That was a 
region of palaces which would have required such a 
work of engineering. It should be well worth explor- 
mg.” 

“Never mind that now,” urged Hugh. “We have an¬ 
other task on hand.” 

He pried up the grating with Watty’s crowbar, the 
butt of which we rested on the ledge in which the grating 
fitted. This secured a space sufficiently wide for us to 
squeeze through, and after all of us had climbed up we 
eased the grating back into its bed, so that there was no 
trace remaining of our entrance. 

The dungeon was the same barren cube of dusty stone 
that we had left by virtue of Watkins’s aid. The ropes 
that had bound us were still on the floor where we had 
cast them. The door we had broken leaned against the 
wall. Obviously, Tokalji and his people had never even 
suspected how we had escaped, apparently, did not even 
know of the existence of the sewer. 1 

It is strange, and I fancy the only answer is Nikka’s: 
that the modern non-Christian inhabitants of Constanti¬ 
nople look with superstitious fear upon the vast under¬ 
ground structures—baths, cisterns, conduits and sewers— 
left by the ancient Roumis, as the builders are usually 
called, do not want to see them or hear of them, never en¬ 
ter it if by chance one is discovered, and cover them up 
whenever they can. 

It was five minutes to eleven when we gained the dun¬ 
geon, and we knew that Nikka must be at a loss to account 
for our failure to signal him. He might suppose us to 
be casualties of the storm, and in desperation, attack alone 

l Tokalji expressed great surprise when we told him about the 
sewer. He refused to enter it, and seemed to regard it as a danger 
to his house. Nikka thought that he would try to fill it in, but I 
believe Kara, who feared nothing, pointed out to him its usefulness 
for illicit purposes, and he changed his mind. J. N. 


IN THE STORM 


251 


on Ms own account. So we wasted no time, beyond shak¬ 
ing the water from our clothes. 

The lower passage and cellars were deserted, but as we 
climbed the stairs leading to the central hall opening on 
the little atrium between the Garden of the Cedars and the 
large chamber which Tokalji occupied we heard a distant 
murmur of voices in disagreement. Investigation proved 
the hall to be unoccupied, and we were presently grouped 
on its uneven floor, with only a curtain separating us from 
the drama going on in the atrium. The rain was drum¬ 
ming down overhead; the wind howled with undiminished 
force; and at intervals the thunder boomed like a barrage 
of 155s. 

“No, you are wrong, Toutou, it is everybody’s business,” 
said Hilyer in French. 

“You may be chief, but you have no right to risk com¬ 
mon property,” protested Sandra’s resonant voice. 

Toutou snarled something in his guttural, indistinct, ani¬ 
mal speech. 

“—like her, and that’s enough,” it concluded. “I’m 
tired of the rest of you. Bunglers, every one.” 

“Have it your own way,” said Serge, “but it’s not busi¬ 
ness. She’s worth so much to us.” 

“One might suppose you a green youth,” cut in Maude 
Hilyer’s frigid tones. “Why should you endanger our 
coup for a colorless chit like—” 

“I say there is no risk,” snapped Toutou. “What do 
I care for them? What does it matter what they—” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Hilyer, “but you Continentals 
don’t appreciate the Anglo-Saxons’ feeling about their 
women. You—” 

“Have done,” bellowed Toutou with a sudden flame of 
temper. “ Urrr-rr-rrhhh! Am I not the master ? I want 
her, and I shall have her! Go! Go ! I say, or you shall 
behold Toutou’s knife.” 

They evidently went, for we could hear the shuffling of 
feet, with an undercurrent of muttered curses and objur- 


252 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


gations. Hugh started forward, pistol in hand, but I 
checked him. This was no time for unpremeditated ac¬ 
tion. There was a moment of silence—and a woman’s cry 
of hatred. 

11 Leave me alone, you beast! If you touch me, I ’ll bite 
you! You can’t bind my teeth. Ah—” 

It was Betty’s voice, and Hugh shook me off and was 
at the curtain with his hand on the folds before I could 
reach him. But reach him I did, and another interruption 
helped me to restrain him. King, his face white and his 
hands shaking, joined us. Watkins lurked behind us. 

“Let me—” gasped Hugh. 

“There’s plenty of time, you fool,” I hissed. “Wait! 
Somebody—” 

I was going to say that somebody might come back, and 
the somebody cut my sentence in the middle. A door 
opened, and the voice of Helene de Cespedes spoke. 

“What is this I hear, mon ami?” she asked. “Are you 
mad? This girl is the spoil of the band. She belongs to 
all of us. We are holding her for a bigger stake. Shall 
we let you have her for your own satisfaction? You take 
too—” 

“You are jealous,” snarled Toutou. “I say I want her, 
and I am going to have her. I am tired of women like 
you.” 

Hugh, his nerves under control, gently parted the folds 
of the curtain with his pistol-muzzle. The atrium was 
brilliantly lighted. He and I could see perfectly. On a 
divan heaped with cushions lay Betty. Her hands were 
bound behind her, and her feet were tied loosely. Her hair 
was rumpled, and her blouse ripped off at the shoulder. 
But her eyes sparked fire as she stared fearlessly at the 
monster who stood beside her. 

Toutou was in a different mood from any I knew, or, 
rather, I should say, from the one I knew. His sinisterly 
beautiful face revealed the latent ferocity that was the 
salient feature of his character, but with it there was 


IN THE STORM 


253 


something else, something difficult to define. The tigerish 
glare in his eyes was replaced by a softer light; the pupils 
were expanded. His mouth was slack. His movements 
were uncertain. He hovered over Betty, looking almost 
fearfully at Helene. 

She stood just inside the door that communicated with 
the large outer chamber. She was dressed in a sport suit 
and high boots. Her hat was off, and her face showed 
pinched and wan. There were shadows under her eyes. 

4 ‘Say I am jealous,” she answered steadily. “I have a 
right to be. You have never had a woman who did more 
for you than I. Do you think Miss Innocence here would 
do what I have done?” 

“That is why I want her,” returned Toutou, his voice 
singularly hoarse. “I am tired of you. I am tired of all 
of you. I hunger for innocence. I wish to forget crime 
and evil. When we finish this job I am going to take this 
petite and go away where Toutou will be unknown.” 

“Toutou LaFitte a reformed character!” Helene laughed 
sarcastically. “You don’t know what you are talking 
about. You have nothing in common with innocence.” 

“Who knows?” 

“I know, mon ami. The girl would kill herself first. 
Sooner than see you do this, I will kill you.” 

Toutou frowned at her. 

“Stand back!” he warned. “If you touch her—” 

Helene stepped forward boldly, one hand inside her 
jacket. 

“There are many things you can do, Toutou,” she said. 
“And you are chief. Nobody questions that. But remem¬ 
ber that if the others are afraid of you, I am not. And 
I say that you shall not do this. Something you owe to the 
band. More, still, you owe to me. You know me well 
enough to appreciate that I intend to secure what I con¬ 
sider due me.” 

Toutou growled in his throat, and his pupils began to 
contract. The slack look left his mouth. 


254 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“It is time you feared me,” he snarled. “Go away, I 
am through with you. I never wish to see you again. You 
shall have your share of this coup, then you shall leave 
the band.” 

“But I thought there was to be no more band,” sneered 
Helene. “I thought Toutou was to become an honest 
bourgeois, with a dove-cot—” 

“You shall feel my knife,” he barked at her. 

“Why should I fear your knife?” she retorted. “The 
last time a woman threatened you, you fled from her 
knife.” 

Her face was white with rage, and Toutou’s whole frame 
seemed to draw together as an animal does when it pre¬ 
pares to spring. His long arms curved before him, his 
right hand at the level of his belt. 

“You do not know when a man tires of you, it seems,” 
he exclaimed. “Can you not see we wish to be by our¬ 
selves ? ’ 9 

She made a violent effort to regain her self-control. 

“For the last time,” she said quietly, “will you heed the 
opinion of your colleagues and leave this girl alone?” 

“No,” he growled savagely. “Go, you—” 

“Look out,” cried Betty, who alone of us all could see 
clearly what Toutou was doing with his right hand. ‘ 1 His 
knife!” 

Helene snatched a pistol from her blouse; but he was 
too quick for her. As the flame spurted from the barrel 
he leaped aside, and his immensely long arm curled out 
and slashed down. The blood frothed over the hilt of his 
knife as it clicked on her collar-bone, and she dropped, 
choking, to the floor. 

In the same instant Hugh fired, but one of us jostled 
him and the bullet missed. Toutou turned, saw the cur¬ 
tain swaying as we charged, and ran for the door. I fired 
once, and the bullet chipped between his arm and side, 
but he was out before we could shoot again. 

From the courtyard came a crash and a ripple of shots 


IN THE STORM 


255 


that vied with the thunder. A chorus of yells pierced 
thinly the howling of the gale. 

Nikka, hearing Helene’s pistol, had accepted it as the 
long over-due signal for his attack. 

“Take care of Betty, Professor!” Hugh called to King. 
“See if you can help this poor girl. Come on, Jack, 
Watty!” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE RECKONING 

T HE big room was a maze of shadows. Stable- 
lanterns, flickering in the drafts, hnng from hooks 
in walls and pillars. Toutou stayed his flight bj 7 " 
the door to the courtyard, one ear inclined to the bedlam 

of shots and outcries that threaded the roar of the storm. 

% 

As we burst in he raised a pistol and sprayed us with 
bullets as rapidly as he could pull the trigger. But he had 
the knife-fighter’s inability to shoot straight. Bullets 
“phutted” all around us, yet none of us was hit. 

Several men and women stared at us. Hilmi Bey peered 
from behind a pillar next the courtyard door. He had 
plainly taken shelter at the crack of Helene’s pistol. 
Montey Hilyer and Serge Vassilievich stood some distance 
to the right of us, paralyzed with surprise. Maude Hilyer 
and Sandra Vassilievna had risen from seats in the apse¬ 
like recess at the other end. Apparently they had sup¬ 
posed Toutou was engaged only with Helene. 

He screamed at them, insensate in his fury. His 
knife still dripped blood. He flung his empty pistol at 
us. 

“Fools!” he shrieked. “We are betrayed!” 

The door to the courtyard was jerked open, and he spun 
on his heel and dodged behind a pillar. Tokalji reeled 
in. 

“Strange Tzigane folk have burst the street-door,” he 
bellowed. “We—” 

He gaped at sight of us. 

‘ ‘ Quick! 7 7 Hugh shouted. * ‘ Scatter—before they shoot! 7 
Watkins and I jumped right and left. Hugh sought the 
shelter of a pillar. 


256 


THE RECKONING 


257 


‘‘Shoot!” yelled Toutou. “Shoot! Fools! Swine! 
Dogs! ’ ’ 

And he babbled on obscenely, darting catlike from pillar 
to pillar toward Watty. Hilyer and Serge simultaneously 
came to life and made for us, guns spurting, throwing 
pieces of furniture to confuse us. Things happened so 
fast that it was impossible to keep track of everything, 
but I found myself involved in a pistol duel with Serge. 
Hugh and Watkins were blazing away at Hilmi, Hilyer 
and Tokalji, and Toutou was weaving through the smoke, 
seeking an opportunity to close with one of us. I paid 
no attention to the women until a bullet spatted on a pillar 
by my eai;. I knew it could not have come from the front, 
and startled, I turned to the left in time to see Sandra 
aiming deliberately at me. I dodged, and thereby opened 
myself to her brother’s attack. 

He was an excellent marksman, and I realized there 
could be only one result for me if I continued exposed in 
flank. So I tore a lantern from its hook and flung it on 
the floor. The burning oil vomited forth a cloud of thick 
black smoke, and under cover of this, I changed my posi¬ 
tion, gaining the protection of another pillar. Here I was 
safe from Sandra; but her brother knew where I was and 
our duel continued. It was no steady stream of bullets, 
but a pot-shot whenever one of us thought he saw an op¬ 
portunity. All around us others were doing the same 
thing, and the vaulted roof rang to the reports, while the 
acrid fumes of the powder and the smoke from broken 
lamps stung the eyes. And outside the thunder was peal¬ 
ing and the lightning splitting the heavens and Nikka’s 
men and Tokalji’s Gypsies were trying their feeble best 
to rival nature’s forces. 

Suddenly, I sensed that our opponents were bracing for 
a combined effort. There was a rapid-fire exchange of 
exclamations in the thieves’ French and Tzigane dialect 
they used for confidential communication. I heard an 
empty cartridge-clip jingle on the floor. But in the shift- 


258 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


ing light and smoke it was impossible now to tell real men 
from the shadows. I stuck my head around a pillar, 
crouched and slipped aside. Then, while I was unpro¬ 
tected, the rush came. 

“Go!” called Hilyer’s voice. 

The shadows were pricked with pistol-flashes. Serge 
Yassilievich leaped for the pillar behind which I had 
stood, his gun blazing, knife in hand. He did not see me, 
on my knees, four feet to the right, and I put my first 
bullet in his thigh. He stopped as if a giant’s hand had 
been shoved against his breast, tottered and fell back¬ 
ward. As he fell, one of the burning oil-pools ignited a 
bundle of blankets, and the rising flames sketched us both 
clearly against the darkness that shrouded the far end of 
the room. 

There was a scream. I recognized Sandra’s voice, but 
I could not see her. Instead, I saw Hilmi Bey sneaking 
on Watkins, who was holding back Toutou. I drove the 
Levantine away with my first shot. Then the hammer 
clicked, and I knew the magazine was empty. I dropped 
to my knee again, thinking I was concealed by a patch 
of shadow, and fumbled for a fresh clip. But the 
treacherous light flared upward, the shadow disappeared 
and I was left defenseless. I saw a raging figure, hair 
flying, pistol raised, running at me. I saw the pistol 
flash, felt a numbing blow on my left shoulder and tum¬ 
bled in a heap. 

For a second my eyes misted, the room danced before 
me. Then I heard a chatter of Russian and Watkins, 
mildly disapproving. 

“None of that ’ere, miss. If you please, now! I don’t 
want to ’urt you, but—” 

I looked up. Sandra, her face contorted with demoniac 
rage, her empty pistol shaking in her hand, was backing 
away before Watty’s menacing crowbar. 

A woman screamed again, horribly, so that it rasped 
your heart-strings. It was Maude Hilyer. She stood, with 


THE RECKONING 


259 


hands clutching her cheeks, her gaze fixed on the center 
of the room where Montey staggered against a pillar, 
the blood from a punctured lung gurgling in his throat, 
bravely trying for the last time to raise the smoking muzzle 
of his automatic. 

Hugh, relieved of the Englishman’s attack, was tak¬ 
ing pot-shots at Toutou and Hilmi. I saw Tokalji slip 
through the door into the rain, and as Yernon King ran 
up the stairs from the atrium Hilmi followed the Tzigane 
and Toutou jumped through a window, squawling like the 
big cat he was. Behind me Watkins was scientifically rop¬ 
ing Sandra, hand and foot, regardless of the curses she 
spat in three languages. Vassilievich had fainted from 
the pain of his wound. Maude Hilyer sat on the dirty 
floor, under the single wobbling lantern that remained 
intact, and cradled the head of her dying husband. We 
had swept the House of the Married. 

Or had we ? As I tried unsuccessfully with one hand to 
reload my pistol, I felt a pressure on my back. I turned 
and very nearly impaled myself on a long knife-blade. A 
tense, willowy figure, bare-footed and tumble-haired, stood 
over me. 

“You are Jakka,” said Kara in the Tzigane dialect—I 
could understand simple phrases after my experience with 
Nikka’s tribespeople. “Where is Nikka?” 

Dumbfounded, I pointed to the courtyard. She glided 
toward the door, but Hugh intervened. 

“Not so fast,” he said. “Whose friend are you?” 

She did not understand him, and raised her knife. 

“I’ll shoot you, if you are a girl,’’ warned Hugh. ‘‘Any 
one who resists—” 

“She’s all right, Hugh,” I called. “She’s trying to 
find Nikka—must have been asleep upstairs. Let her go.” 

But she did not wait for him to stand aside. With a 
single leap, she put one of the pillars between him and 
herself, and vaulted from the window Toutou had escaped 

by. 


260 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Nothing slow about that girl,” said Hugh. “Every¬ 
body whole?” 

A pistol cracked in the doorway, and the bullet sang by 
his ear. 

“They’re still after us,” he commented, dropping beside 
me. “Have to load my gun.” 

“Then load mine, too,” I said. “My left shoulder’s 
hit—whole arm is no use.” 

He laid down his automatic. 

“We’ll carry you inside with Betty. I see Watty has 
made a prisoner, and Vassilievich had better be watched. 
You can—” 

‘ ‘ I will not, ’ ’ I returned. “ We ’ll need every man before 
we finish to-night. Hear that! ’ ’ 

The courtyard had become an inferno—yells, screams, 
howls, shots, the beat of the rain and the din of the storm. 

“Tie my arm to my side, and I’ll be 0. K.,” I urged. 

Betty crawled between us. 

“Did I hear you call me?” she asked. 

“My word!” grunted Hugh. “Get back, Bet. This 
is—” 

“Touch and go,” she supplemented his sentence. “I 
have Helene’s gun. You boys had better help Nikka. I 
can guard this place.” 

A whistle shrilled in the courtyard. 

“Hugh!” It was Nikka’s voice. “Jack!” 

There was a racket of shots. 

“Yes, he must be badly outnumbered,” muttered Hugh. 
“No time to lose. Here, Jack, where’s your handkerchief? 
Right 0! Thanks, Bet. Not too tight. Can you stand 
that ?’ ’ 

“Yes, load my gun, somebody.” 

Betty took it. King, esconced behind an adjacent pillar, 
fired at the door. 

“They seem to be waiting for us out there,” he observed. 

“Yes,” said Hugh. “Betty, you lie here in the shadows. 
Don’t let anybody approach you, no matter what they 


THE RECKONING 


261 


say. Keep an eye on Mrs. Hilyer and the Russian girl— 
and her brother. See him over there? He’s done in, for 
the time-being, but if he comes to maybe you’d better tie 
him up.” 

“Don’t you worry about me,” answered Betty valiantly. 
“I can take care of myself. Do hurry!” 

“ ’Ere, your ludship,” came a throaty whisper from 
Watkins. “This way, gentlemen.” 

He was at the far end of the room, and while we watched, 
he put his hat on the end of his crowbar—from which he 
refused to be parted—and stuck it above the sill of a win¬ 
dow. 

“I’ve done this twice now, your ludship,” he 
added, “and nothing’s ’appened. They ain’t watching 
’ere.” 

A little investigation proved that he was right, and we 
crawled out into the rain and huddled against the house- 
wall, attempting to disentangle the situation. The rain 
was descending in slanting, blinding sheets. Pistols 
cracked and men gasped or shouted, but we could not tell 
whether they were friends or foes. As we waited, two 
men dashed by, one in pursuit of the other. It was im¬ 
possible for us to intervene. Then, with a preliminary 
crash of thunder, the lightning zigzagged across the sky, 
and for the winking of an eye the courtyard was bright 
as day. 

I had an impression of bodies scattered here and there, 
and little clusters of men that struggled and ran. Over 
in the corner of the courtyard wall by the bachelors’ house 
men swirled in a tumultuous mass. The darkness closed 
down once more, thick and wet and cold. 

“Coming, Nikka!” shouted Hugh. And to us: “The 
big fight is the key to everything. We must break it up. 
They’ve got Nikka pinned in.” 

Tokalji’s gang faced around as we attacked their rear; 
but we went clean through them and almost drove on to the 
knives of Nikka’s party. 


262 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


‘‘After them!” panted Hugh. “We’ve got ’em break¬ 
ing ! ’ ’ 

Nikka called to his men in their own tongue, and they 
lined up with us in a thin file across the courtyard from 
wall to wall. Behind Nikka I had a brief vision of a figure 
as elusive as the rain. I thought of an assassin who had 
flanked us and lifted my automatic—but something, the 
proud poise of the head, perhaps, warned me it was 
Kara. 

There was a crackle of pistol-fire in front of us, and a 
knot of figures swayed into view, distorted, indistinct. 
The deluge seemed to act as a freak lens to play tricks 
with normal vision; and possibly that was why compara¬ 
tively few were shot. Twice I had men fair over the bar¬ 
rel of my pistol, and both times I missed—and I am rather 
better than a good shot. But I had no opportunity for 
philosophizing at that time. 

Toutou and Hilmi Bey went for Nikka. Fie was bleed¬ 
ing from a cut in the arm, and all his men were engaged. 
Hugh, with King and Watty, was developing an encircling 
movement on the opposite end of the line. I started to go 
to Nikka’s aid, but a man sprang at me from nowhere, and 
I was obliged to dodge him until I had a chance to shoot. 
I did not miss that time. When I looked again, Nikka and 
Toutou were circling each other, and Hilmi was at grips 
with Kara. 

At first I thought the Levantine was scheming to throw 
the girl, but as I drew near I perceived that he had clinched 
with her in mortal terror of her knife. She held his own 
powerless by her grasp of his wrist. A mocking light 
gleamed in her eyes, and she shook back her loose hair and 
jeered at him in the Tzigane dialect. With one pudgy 
hand he strove to ward off her blade, but he could not 
control her lithe muscles. She tore her wrist free, the 
steel drove home through his sodden frock-coat and he col¬ 
lapsed with a squeal. 

Kara pulled out her knife as casually as though it had 


THE RECKONING 


263 


been a familiar occurrence, and turned to watch Nikka’s 
fight with Toutou. Nikka from the corner of his eye 
saw the two of us, plainly waiting a chance to help him, 
and he leaped clear of the circle of his enemy’s knife long 
enough to snap: 

“Let be! I finish this alone!” 

I couldn’t have helped him, in any case, for as redoubt¬ 
able a person as Tokalji, himself, attacked me that moment. 
Kara did not even notice my danger. She also ignored the 
man she called father. Her whole attention was concen¬ 
trated upon Nikka. I fired once at the Gypsy chief, and 
missed. That was the last cartridge in the magazine, and 
I attempted to lose him in the rain. But he refused to be 
lost, and I was making up my mind to taking his knife 
in my wounded arm and battering his head with my pistol- 
butt, when Watkins loomed in the mist and brought down 
his trusty crowbar on Tokalji’s knife-wrist. The Gypsy 
yelped like a dog, and the knife clattered on the ground. 
Watty produced some rope from a pocket and deftly 
twisted the man’s arms behind him. Tokalji yelped again. 

“Easy,” I said. “The fellow’s wrist is broken.” 

“I’m tying ’im above the helbows, Mister Jack, sir,” 
answered Watty. “But if it did ’urt ’im a bit I wouldn’t 
worry, sir. I ’ave an hidea, sir, ’e was one of the scoun¬ 
drels that bashed me ’ead.” 

My one thought was of Nikka, and I sought him over the 
rain-battered area of the court. The fighting had drifted 
away toward the sea-wall. There seemed to be nobody 
near me. I listened hard, and in a lull of the storm my 
ears detected the click of blades. I stumbled toward it,' 
and nearly fell on top of Kara, crouching as I had left 
her, eyes glued on the two men who circled tirelessly, steel- 
tipped arms crooked before them. 

Toutou had a huge advantage in reach, but Nikka had 
the benefit of lithe agility, a wrist of iron—the result of 
years of bowing; a hawk’s eyes; and all the tricks with 
the blade that the people of his race have amassed in 


264 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


centuries of bloody strife. Four times, while I watched, 
Toutou endeavored to force down Nikka’s knife by the 
sheer strength of his gorilla-arm, and each time Nikka 
disengaged and refused to give the opportunity his ad¬ 
versary needed. Twice Nikka tried a certain trick, a com¬ 
bination of lightning thrusts and clever footwork. But 
the Frenchman parried it each time, and retaliated so 
quickly as to drive Nikka out of reach. 

Neither of them said anything. Toutou spat and whined 
in his throat, cat-fashion. Nikka panted from the exertion. 
Both of them dripped with sweat, notwithstanding the 
rain. There was something of an epic quality about their 
struggle, and I discovered myself taking the same almost 
impersonal interest in it that Kara demonstrated. By 
all the principles of normal right-behavior, I should have 
ignored Nikka’s command to let him fight it out alone, 
and rushed in at the first opening to kill a monster, who 
did not deserve and had no appreciation of knightly 
treatment. But I could not. I was chained by an emotion 
I could not fathom. 

And yet I was absorbed in Nikka’s success. My heart 
leaped in my throat when I saw that he was trying for the 
third time the trick which had twice failed. His knife 
went up in the same way, he shifted posture as he had in 
his other tries, and Toutou mechanically side-stepped as 
experience had told him was safe and aimed a stab which 
should have cut Nikka’s throat. But Nikka was not there. 
He had varied the trick. Stooping, his knife had fallen, 
then sliced upward—and Toutou staggered, a look of bland 
surprise on his face, ripped open from belly to chest. 

“ Pt-sss-ss-tss-sst! ’ ’ he hissed, and fell forward. 

Kara hurled herself into Nikka’s arms. 

“You are the greatest knife-fighter of the Tziganes!” 
she cried triumphantly. “You are a king! You are my 
man! See, while you conquered your enemy, I, too, stabbed 
the rat who tried to put his knife in your back.” 

And she led Nikka to the body of Hilmi, which, I regret 


THE RECKONING 


265 


to say, she kicked with her brown toes. Nikka absent- 
mindedly leaned over to wipe his knife on the Levantine’s 
coat-tails, but Kara intervened. 

“No, no,” she exclaimed. “Here is my hair! "Wipe it 
on my hair, beloved of my heart. Let me suck it clean 
with my lips! So we shall have strong sons.” 

Nikka looked sufficiently annoyed to show that he had 
some instincts of civilization remaining. 

“Peace,” he ordered royally. “Be quiet, girl!” • 

She cowered before him, and he recognized me. 

“Oh, hullo, Jack! Where’s Hugh?” 

Hugh loomed through the rain as he spoke. 

‘ ‘ That you, Nikka ? We think we’ve got Tokalji’s people 
rounded up, but we need you to talk to them. Has Tou- 
tou—” 

“He’s there.” 

Nikka pointed his knife to the heap of drab garments 
that had been the French “killer.” 

* 1 Good for you!’’ exclaimed Hugh. “I’m glad he didn’t 
get off. When you think of Uncle James and—that girl 
we saw—and I suppose others! What a beast!” 

We splashed after him, Kara following Nikka like a 
dog. Wasso Mikali, his surviving young men, King and 
Watkins were guarding thirteen shivering Gypsies in the 
lee of the bachelors’ quarters. In reply to questions, 
Tokalji told Nikka—and Kara, shamelessly throwing in 
her lot with us, corroborated him—that there had been 
fifteen of their band on the premises. A search of the 
courtyard disclosed two of them dead, together with one 
of Wasso Mikali’s men. We bound the arms of the prison¬ 
ers, most of whom were suffering from bullet-wounds or 
stabs, and marched them over to the House of the Mar¬ 
ried. 

The one lantern was still flickering when we entered, 
and Betty rose to greet us. 

“Thank God!” she said soberly as her eyes envisaged 
us all. “What did you do with Mrs. Hilyer?” 


266 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Isn’t she here?” asked Hugh. 

“No. I don’t know just when she left. There was a lot 
of firing, and I looked to where she had been sitting by 
her husband, and she was gone.” 

Nikka and I sped back into the courtyard. We picked 
our way over the occasional bodies to the street-door. 
It was ajar. 

“I locked it myself!” cried Nikka. “Old Wasso 
picked it without damaging the spring. I took time 
when we entered to fasten it again.” 

I was feeling very weak. My shoulder throbbed. 
Nausea assailed me in recurrent waves. But I clutched 
the gate-post, and peered into the street. Nobody was in 
sight. Sokaki Masyeri was a bare waste of mud and foam¬ 
ing gutters. 

“She escaped,” said Nikka. “Too bad! We might 
have—What’s the matter, Jack?” 

He caught me as my knees bent under me. I felt the 
rain on my eyelids, and then everything was blotted 
out. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


UNDER THE RED STONE 

W HEN I opened my eyes Watkins was bending 
over me. 

“Ah, there, Mister Jack,” he said, “ ’ave a 
drink of this. Thank you, sir.” And as I struggled to 
a sitting position: “No need of ’aste, sir. All’s well. 
And you ’ad a bit of a knock, if I may say so, sir.” 

“It seems as though you and I were the Jonahs, Watty,” 
I answered. “This is the third time I’ve passed out cold.” 

“Quite right, sir. The same thought was in me own 
’ead. If Mrs. Prouty and ’Awkins—the butler, sir—and 
the others in the Servants’ ’All could ’ave seen me last 
night, they would ’ave been startled, sir. I do assure you 
they would. There was that Russian young lady, now. 
I give you my word, sir, she cursed like a maniac, and 
’er brother was no better when ’e came from ’is faint. A 
fair rowdy lot of people we ’ad on our ’ands—including 
the young person in whom Mister Nikka happears to be 
interested, as the saying goes, sir.” 

“You said ‘last night,’ I believe,” I interrupted. 

“Yes, sir. It’s close to noon, Mister Jack. But Lord 
bless you, sir, there’s been no rest. We ’ad a largish 
hundertaker’s job, let alone tidying up and minding the 
prisoners.” 

“What have we done with the bodies?” 

“In the garden, sir. The prisoners did the work—ex¬ 
cept the Russian persons, sir. ’E couldn’t, account of ’is 
leg, and she, being a lady, so to speak, was hexcused.” 

“Well, I’m going to get up,” I announced. “My shoul¬ 
der feels better.” 


267 


268 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“If you wish, sir. Miss Betty thought you would be 
fit after a nap. She and Mister Nikka’s uncle, the tall 
old gentleman who looks like Pantaloon in the Drury Lane 
pantos, they looked you over. They said your shouldei 
bone was bruised and the muscle torn, sir; but they’ve 
wrapped you up to the king’s taste. My instructions were 
to get you anything you required, but with submission, sir, 
might I suggest you sleep.a little longer? There’s noth¬ 
ing—oh, ’ere’s Mister Nikka.” 

Nikka strolled in from the courtyard—I was lying in 
the apse at the end of the large chamber on the ground 
floor of the House of the Married—with Kara trailing him. 

“Hullo, Jack!” he greeted me. “Tough luck you had 
to stop a bullet. "We’re all more or less cut up, but you 
had the worst of it, although my uncle, who is a practical 
surgeon in a crude way, claims the bullet missed the 
bone.” 

“So Watkins told me. Any news? The police—” 

“No, the storm covered the shooting. Hugh has been to 
Pera with Betty in the Curlew this morning, and they 
heard no comments. One of Wasso Mikali’s men stopped 
in at the corner coffee-shop, and made sure there was no 
local gossip. The only danger, I think, is from Mrs. Hil- 
yer. We’ve got to risk that.” 

“Aren’t you all worn out?” 

“No. Too much excitement, I expect. We’re just go¬ 
ing to eat. Then Betty insists on going after the treasure 
again.” 

Kara sidled up to him, with a venomous glance at me, 
and ejaculated a remark sotto voice. Nikka laughed, and 
pushed her behind him. She heeded him like a dog that 
is contented with a rebuke, so long as notice is taken by 
its master. 

“She said,” Nikka translated, “that I ought not to 
talk with you any longer. She wants me to pay atten¬ 
tion to her.” 

“Humph!” I growled, returning Kara’s look with in- 



UNDER THE RED STONE 


269 


terest. ‘ * Help me up, will you ? Thanks! What are you 
going to do with her?” 

“Tame her, I expect,” he answered cheerfully. “I’ve 
begun by taking her knife away from her. She wanted to 
stick Betty because I talked more than five minutes to Bet 
about you.” 

“A sweet job! She’ll end by sticking you.” 

“Perhaps,” agreed Nikka equably. “Come and get 
some breakfast. A cup of coffee will help you to take a 
more charitable view of a wild little Gypsy girl.” 

Hugh, Betty and Vernon King welcomed us as we en¬ 
tered the atrium, where a low table of packing-boxes had 
been rigged. Wasso Mikali and his men were either guard¬ 
ing the prisoners or else keeping watch on the street en¬ 
trance. Kara scowled at all of us, but squatted deter¬ 
minedly behind Nikka. Watkins proceeded to serve, and 
I was amused to observe that Kara, much against her 
will, was secretly awed by the matter-of-fact pomp with 
which Watkins was able to invest a meal under such im¬ 
promptu conditions. 

We talked very little. The one idea in the mind of 
each of us was to get at the red stone, which we could see 
from where we sat, and we choked down our food as rap¬ 
idly as possible. I forgot completely my injured shoulder. 
Watkins actually hurried himself in passing the eggs. 
Betty and Hugh crumbled a few bits of toast, and strangled 
over their coffee. Vernon King alone ate placidly, with 
the zest of a man who feels he has done a good job well. 
At last, Betty could stand it no longer, and she sprang up 
with an imitation of Kara’s scowl so faithful that every¬ 
body, except Kara, laughed. 

“Daddy, you’ve had time for two breakfasts,” she de¬ 
creed. “That’s enough. Besides, I won’t have you get¬ 
ting fat in your old age. Come! Everybody ! We’ve got 
our chance, our chance that we began to think was gone 
aglimmering. The treasure of the Bucoleon is at our feet— 
under our feet, I mean. Up with the red stone!” 


270 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Up she goes!” assented Hugh. 

Crowbars, chisels, mallets, picks and shovels appeared, 
and Hugh paced the distance from the Fountain of the 
Lion. His calculations indicated the stone that I had 
roughly estimated on our first visit to the garden. We all 
watched him with madly beating hearts. It was really 
true! We were going to lay bare the secret covered by 
the red stone, to grasp the prize that the Emperor An- 
dronicus had concealed seven centuries before, the prize 
that generation after generation of men had striven for in 
vain. 

The thought exhilarated us, and when Hugh stepped 
aside and seized a chisel and mallet we all set to with 
superhuman energy. I was unable to do much, but I ex¬ 
perienced a sharp pleasure in the mere act of holding with 
my one hand the head of a chisel upon which one of the 
others rained blows with a mallet. We could not take 
time for conversation. We worked. Even Vernon King, 
who had millions at his command, succumbed to the lure 
of the red stone’s secret, and panted as he chipped the 
rotten mortar from the interstices between the red stone 
and those surrounding it. 

Working at such a pa^e and with so many willing hands, 
it was only a matter of a few minutes before the stone 
was detached from its neighbors, and Nikka thrust the tip 
of a crowbar under its edge. Followed then a struggle 
of some duration, but in the end it sagged up and was 
overturned. Below it was a second stone of equal dimen¬ 
sions, granite, unmortared, although the dust of ages had 
sifted into the cracks around it. This yielded to our ef¬ 
forts much sooner than had the cap-stone, and Hugh, 
kneeling amongst the debris, peered down into a yawning 
hole in the pavement. 

“Careful!” warned King. “A compartment which has 
been sealed for centuries will be full of carbonic-acid 
gas. ’ ’ 

Hugh sniffed. 


UNDER THE RED STONE 


271 


“It's as damp as—as—that beastly drain,” he said. 
“But it smells reasonably sweet.” 

We poked our torches into the hole. All they showed 
w r as a steep flight of stairs descending straight into black¬ 
ness. 

“Most extraordinary!” mumbled Vernon King. “By¬ 
zantine masonry, beyond a doubt. Observe the squaring 
of the blocks, and the composition of the mortar. This 
is no such slovenly work as Turkish masons do. The mas¬ 
ter-builders of old laid these stones.” 

“If it’s safe, what are we waiting for?” I barked. 

Our nerves were on edge. 

“Oh, take your time,” said Hugh impatiently, and he 
lowered himself, feet first. 

The others followed him, one by one, and I brought up 
the rear, ashamed of myself for the temper I had ex¬ 
hibited. The pitch of the stairs was so sharp that we had 
to bend only a little in passing under the rim of the open¬ 
ing. They were barely wide enough for one man, and I 
counted thirty of them before they terminated in a pas¬ 
sage that led off at right angles, with an appreciable down¬ 
ward slope. 

“Hold up!” Hugh called back to us a moment later. 
“Here’s an opening into another passage. There’s a step 
down. Why, this is the drain again!” 

We joined him, incredulous, only to be convinced at 
once that he was right. The passage debouched on the 
sewer some distance inland from the grating of the dun¬ 
geon. 

“My God!” groaned Hugh. “And we’ve gone through 
everything for this! Was there ever such a sell!” 

The vaulted roof echoed his words. The “drip-drip” 
of slime and fungi was a melancholy punctuation for 
them. But the reaction loosened our taut nerves. The 
one thought of all of us was to comfort Hugh. 

“There may be some explanation,” said Nikka. 

“Perhaps we overlooked something,” I volunteered. 



272 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“It is a most unusual archaeological discovery,” offered 
King. 

“There is an explanation,” cried Betty. “We have 
overlooked something. I know it. There must be.” 

“It’s no go,” answered Hugh despondently. “I’ve 
brought you on a wild-goose chase.” 

We all looked rather white and wan in the cold light 
of the electric torches. 

“It’s not your fault, old man,” I said after a moment’s 
silence, trying dismally to be cheerful. “The lead looked 
good. We followed it because we hoped it would make 
you rich. We failed, and that’s that.” 

Betty stared wildly from one to the other of us. 

“You all make me tired,” she exclaimed. “Why should 
we give up hope? How long have we looked, so far? 
What—Oh, let me by! I must think! ’ ’ 

She brushed by me into the fake passage, and the echo 
of her footfalls reached us as she ascended to the garden. 

“We might as well follow her,” said Hugh. “I’m aw¬ 
fully sorry, you chaps. You risked your lives for this 
rotten show. My poor deluded ancestor! I expect most 
of these buried treasure stories are bunk, anyway. In 
fact, I have a dim recollection of telling poor Uncle James 
as much. And there’s another thing to make the gods 
laugh! A fine old cock like Uncle James devoting his 
whole life to following a will-o’-the-wisp—and then losing 
it for nothing. It—it’s—oh, Hell, I suppose it’s really 
funny! ’ ’ 

We climbed wearily up the thirty steps to the garden 
level. As I reached the surface the first object my eyes 
encountered was Betty, sitting on the red stone and por¬ 
ing over a sheet of paper. 

“Hullo!” she called, looking up with all her accustomed 
vivacity. “Do you recognize this paper, Hugh?” 

She fluttered it at him. 

“Looks like my handwriting,” he admitted. 

“It’s the copy of the Instructions you sent me, which 


UNDER THE RED STONE 


273 


I remailed to myself Poste Restante. I remembered it 
this morning when we were in Pera and called for it at 
the Post Office while you were packing the bags at the 
iotel. I thought we might need it.” 

“What good can it do?” asked Hugh heavily. 

“There’s an important point in it, which nobody has 
appreciated up to this time. It becomes doubly important 
in view of what we have just seen.” 

“The elided portion!” exclaimed Nikka. 

“Exactly! Look!” 

And she spread the paper before us. Hugh had faith¬ 
fully copied his uncle’s translation of the old Latin, set¬ 
ting down also the several lines of dots by which Lord 
Chesby had indicated the words which had been smudged 
out by moisture and handling at some past time. They 
appeared, you will recall, at the conclusion of the explicit 
directions: 

“Underfoot is a red stone an ell square. Raise the—” 

And then nothing distinguishable until the concluding 
line of farewell. 

“Well?” demanded Betty triumphantly as we all studied 
the cryptic dots. 

Hugh shook his head. 

“Betty, you were a brick to remember it,” he said, “but 
honestly, what use is it ? Whatever words are missing are 
unimportant. They must have been or somebody would 
have rewritten them.” 

“That does not necessarily follow,” spoke up Vernon 
King. “Old documents, especially those inscribed on 
parchment, are tricky records. It frequently happens that 
some isolated portion will be spoiled, while the other parts 
of the same sheet may retain their integrity. Moreover, 
we should not lose sight of the possibility that the person 
who last concealed the parchment, the Lady Jane Chesby 
of whom you have spoken, seems not to have been inclined 
to attach much importance to it. She would have been 
the last one to attempt to make good its deficiencies.” 


274 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“But where could the treasure be that we have not 
looked?” demanded Hugh. “The directions are explicit. 
We followed them faithfully. So far as they exist we 
have verified their accuracy. But we have uncovered no 
place which could have served as a treasure chamber.” 

“Yes, Hugh, the directions are explicit,” retorted Betty. 
“And as you say, so far as we have them they have proved 
correct. They left us in the passage under the red stone 
which ends at the drain. And why was that passage 
built? Why to get into the drain!” 

“And the treasure was in the drain?” protested Hugh. 
“That’s absurd, Bet.” 

“It would have been washed away long ago,” I scoffed. 
“That place is full of water at very high tides.” 

“I didn’t say it was heaped on the floor and left there,” 
returned Betty. 

“Where would it be?” asked Nikka. 

“That’s what we have to find out.” 

“What about the grating in the floor of the dungeon?” 
I cut in. “If they wanted to get into the drain—” 

“But no man who had hidden a treasure in the drain 
would have relied on a drainage grating in a dungeon for 
means of access to it,” answered Betty. 

“That dungeon was a place for getting rid of special 
prisoners,” interrupted King. “When the drain was ac¬ 
tively in use, the water must often have backed up into the 
dungeon. I agree with Elizabeth that an Emperor hid¬ 
ing a vast treasure would not have utilized the grating 
for access to it.” 

Nikka closed the argument. 

“I am on Betty’s side in this,” he said. “At the least, 
she has given us something definite to work on. Now, if 
you will take my advice, Hugh, you and Professor King, 
with Betty and Jack to help you, will be the treasure¬ 
hunting squad. I had best remain here to act as expedi¬ 
tionary liaison officer with Wasso Mikali and his people 


UNDER THE RED STONE 275 

at need. And if yon don’t mind, I’ll need Watkins as 
galloper.’’ 

Every one agreed to this plan, and the four of us im¬ 
mediately descended into the passage again. King made 
a careful study of the stonework, in which I assisted him, 
with a view to ascertaining beyond any doubt whether 
there was any sealed opening in its walls. Both of us 
considered this the logical first step, but Hugh and Betty 
wearied of so unexciting a task and left us to explore 
the upper end of the drain. 

We had been at this for rather more than an hour, with¬ 
out the faintest hint of success, when we were interrupted 
by a hail from Hugh. 

“Professor! Jack! Come here!” 

“Oh, Dad,” called Betty, “here’s a funny inscription 
on the wall.” 

We dropped into the water, and w T aded inland for some 
twenty-odd paces to where they were standing, with their 
torches bearing on a patch of marble let into the rough 
face of the right-hand wall. Hugh was working with his 
knife-point, scraping away the moss and fungi that par¬ 
tially obscured the letters. 

“I saw it by accident,” bubbled Betty. “We went up 
a long way to where the roof gets much lower, and we 
heard water rushing ahead of us, so Hugh said we ought 
to turn back. My light just happened to catch on this 
piece of stone here as we passed it. There was one row 
of letters quite clear, but the others were all overgrown 
with this slimy stuff. What does it say, Dad ? ’ ’ 

“It’s Greek right enough,” added Hugh, still scraping 
industriously. “I can make out a word here and there, 
but it doesn’t seem to be the same language I boned at 
school. Just a moment, sir, and I’ll have the whole in¬ 
scription cleared.” 

I peered over their shoulders at the deeply-carven lines 
of angular characters. 


276 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 



The stone was about three or four feet square, and be¬ 
low it was another similar one. Above the lettering was 
an elaborately scrolled cross. From it my eyes sought my 
uncle’s face, and were held at once by the astonishment 
I saw mirrored there. 

‘ 1 Most amazing! ” he muttered to himself. 

“What is it, Dad?” clamored Betty. 

“But it can’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “Quite 
extraordinary! Dear me, I never saw this formula be 
fore.” 

“For Pat’s sake, tell us!” I implored. 

“It says nothing about the treasure, my dear boys,” 
he answered sadly. “My surprise was called forth by 
the unusual form of expression. These inscriptions al¬ 
ways follow a certain set phraseology, but this one is strik¬ 
ingly different.” 

“By gum,” groaned Betty inelegantly, “ Isn’t this the 
limit?” 









UNDER THE RED STONE 


277 


“Read it anyway/’ I urged. 

Hugh was beyond words. 

“It says/’ began King, “and mind you, I am translat¬ 
ing roughly—your statement that it differs from the 
classical Greek, standardized according to German theories, 
Hugh, such as is taught in the classroom, is quite correct— 
‘In the year after Christ 1185 and of the Indiction 2, 
Andronicus, the Scepter Wielder, Christ-loving Emperor 
of the Romans, built this drain new from the tide level.’ ” 

He broke off. 

“So far it is no different from thousands of other in¬ 
scriptions we might find on the city walls, aqueducts, cis¬ 
terns, churches or other public works. But now comes 
the part I cannot understand: ‘If there were tongues, 
man^ might praise him.’ ” 

“ ‘If there were tongues many might praise him/ ” re¬ 
peated Betty. 

“What does it matter?” said Hugh dispiritedly. 
“We’re not interested in whether or not the subjects of 
the Emperor Andronicus were anxious to praise him. I 
could curse him for putting up a cock-and-bull story on 
my foolish ancestor.” 

“ ‘If there were tongues many might praise him/ ” re¬ 
peated Betty again. “And it was the Emperor Andron¬ 
icus ! The same, Daddy ? The one the Instructions speak 
about ? ’ ’ 

“Manifestly, my dear, the date certifies to that.” 

“Then there must be something in it,” she insisted. 
“ ‘If there were tongues many might praise him.’ Don’t 
you see what it means? There were no tongues to praise 
him. This work was not known at the time. Why? 
And why was he able to keep it a secret ? ’ ’ 

“He may have murdered all the workmen,” replied 
her father slowly. “He was a singularly bloody tyrant, 
according to the contemporary historians.” 

“Exactly,” triumphed Betty. “And why would he 
have murdered them, in order to keep this work a secret? 


278 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


You see, he ‘built the drain new from the tide-level,’ 
probably to this point. That means there was a drain, 
but it needed repair, and he seized the opportunity to 
hide his treasure. Hugh, where are those tools? I’m 
going to get this stone out of the wall.” 

It was as hard a job as we tackled, despite the softening 
of the mortar by the moisture of the ages; but after two 
hours, Hugh and Vernon King were able to pry the slab 
loose and it fell out with a mighty splash. Hugh thrust 
in the end of his crowbar, and it struck brickwork. Our 
torches showed this to be very flimsy, and when it was 
pounded it rang hollow. The three of us who had two 
arms apiece went at it with a will, and I was dispatched 
for reinforcements. 

Nikka refused to come himself, but he sent Watty, and 
the valet helped in the final act of demolition. By the 
end of the afternoon we had smashed through an embras¬ 
ure nearly three feet high and four feet long, and Hugh 
nominated Betty for the honor of leading the way into the 
dim passage w r hich abutted on the hole. The rest of us 
crawled in afterward. My uncle and Watkins boosted 
me up, for my bad shoulder hindered me. 

The passage was seven feet high and four feet wide. 
It led straight back between brick walls into a large 
chamber the roof of which was upheld by brick piers. The 
place was musty, foetid even, and very damp, but as our 
torches struggled through the darkness the rays were cap¬ 
tured and juggled by glinting, sheeny heaps that were 
stacked against the piers and walls. Betty started forward 
involuntarily. There was a slurring sound, and then a 
tiny tinkling that died away in a faint murmurous ss- 
ssh. 

“It’s gold!” she cried. 

We flashed our torches right and left. It was true. 
Great golden piles sloped away from us. The fragments 
of the bags that once had held this wealth projected from 
the multitude of coins. At the end of the chamber the 


UNDER THE RED STONE 


279 


piles mounted to the roof. There were stray rivulets of 
gold that trickled almost to the mouth of the passage. To 
the left stood several tiers of ancient chests. The first 
yielded at once to the point of Hugh’s knife. The rotten 
wood cut like cardboard. "When he flung the lid back it 
fell apart, but we scarcely noticed it for the dazzling 
glamor of the gems that seemed almost to fight to escape 
from their centuries-long imprisonment. 

Jewels and jewelry and massive plate were heaped in 
indiscriminate confusion, huge salvers, cups, chalices, am¬ 
phora, bracelets, armlets, amulets, brooches, necklaces, 
rings beyond number—and running in and out of the set 
stones, the endless profusion of unmounted gems, diamonds, 
amethysts, rubies, opals, pearls, sapphires, topazes, gar¬ 
nets, turquoises, emeralds, and others I could not name. 

I picked up what had been a king’s crown, a barbaric 
headdress of crude unalloyed gold, red and soft, set with 
enormous uncut stones. Next to it was a chased bracelet 
that might have come from the goldsmiths’ shops of 
Athens in the classic age. The quantity of precious things 
was almost inconceivable. And this was but one of a score 
of chests. 

King stooped and scooped up a handful of gold pieces 
from the floor, broad, finely-minted, bearing the double¬ 
headed eagle of Byzantium and the busts and figures of 
dead- and-gone Emperors. 

“Was there ever such a find?” he muttered. “What a 
chance for the numismatists! See! Here is a Byzant of 
Artavasdos the Usurper. I never saw one before. It was 
not known that he had coined money. And here is the 
likeness of Arcadius, first of the Eastern Emperors.” 

Betty threw her arms around Hugh, as shameless, for 
the moment, as Kara. 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” she murmured. “It’s as much as 
you thought it would be, isn’t it?” 

Hugh was dazed. 

“As much? By Jove, sweetheart, I—I never dreamed 


280 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


of anything like this! I—really, yon know, I didn’t hon¬ 
estly believe in it before. I used to pretend to make myself 
carry on. I told myself it was up to me to see the thing 
through on Uncle James’s account. But—this! I say, 
Professor, how much do you suppose there is here?” 

Vernon King swept his torch in an arc around the cham¬ 
ber, the extreme confines of which were shrouded in 
shadow. 

“I am no fiscal expert, my dear boy. It would take a 
committee of jewelers to assess those chests alone. As for 
the gold, I have seen the Treasury vaults in Washington, 
and gold mounts up fast when you run into the thousands 
of pounds avoirdupois. Just as a wild guess, I might 
hazard a minimum of $100,000,000, £20,000,000 at normal 
exchange. ’ ’ 

“But it can’t be!” I protested, the sweat beading my 
forehead at the thought. “Why, it’s ridiculous. They 
didn’t have wealth on such a scale in those days.” 

“Not at all, Jack,” returned my uncle, his scholar’s 
pride aroused. “You must remember that you are viewing 
here the hoard accumulated by a Roman Emperor, one 
of the last rulers before the definite initiation of the 
Empire’s final collapse. It was then still by far the richest 
country of which we have any record. According to Ben¬ 
jamin of Tudela, the Jewish traveler of the Twelfth Cen¬ 
tury, the revenue received by the Emperor from the city 
of Constantinople by itself amounted to 7,300,000 numis- 
mata, or in the neighborhood of $20,000,000. 

“Benjamin and other later authorities, Andreades, 
Paparrhegopulos, Kalligas, assert the revenue derived from 
the remainder of the Empire to have represented five 
times this sum. At the most moderate computation, the 
total revenue of the Empire must have exceeded $120,000,- 
000. It was probably very much more. In addition, the 
wealth of the individual citizens and nobles was enor¬ 
mous. The Emperor Andronicus, with whose efforts we 
have to deal here, had two years to milk the country’s 




UNDER THE RED STONE 


281 


wealth. During those two years, he not only absorbed 
the taxes, but confiscated the wealth of more nobles than 
any ruler prior to that period. 

‘‘I should not be greatly surprised if the contents of 
this chamber was discovered to exceed $125,000,000. 
Andronicus was possessed with a mania for accumulating 
a treasure for rebuilding the Empire. If he—” 

“If you aren’t very lucky, Hugh, you are going to lose 
all this stuff just because you were lucky enough to find 
it,” said Nikka’s voice behind us. 

We turned to confront him. Kara’s dark, passionate 
face was at his shoulder. Her eyes drank in the picture, 
and she stood on her tip-toes to whisper in Nikka’s ear. 

“No thank you, my dear,” he answered drily. “She 
suggests that I give her my knife, and that between us we 
clean up you people. Oddly enough, she is not alone in 
possessing that idea. Who do you suppose is upstairs?” 

“Mrs. Hilyer,” I exclaimed. 

“Right. But she’s not alone. She came back with Mah- 
kouf Pasha. I’ve got them both safe under lock-and-key, 
with Wasso Mikali’s knife at their throats. Still—” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire, your ludship,” 
remarked Watkins glumly. “Sure I was this was too good 
to last.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY, CHGS. PD., WITH CARE 

R ELUCTANTLY and with many a backward look, 
we retired from that glimmering vault of wealth, 
and climbed to the atrium. We were all soaked 
to the waist and suddenly conscious of the fatigue of the 
last two crowded days. Personally, I felt that I had 
reached the limit. I didn’t care what happened. I 
thought that we were in a hopeless fix. Vernon King was 
equally morose. Betty was ready to weep. Nikka was 
sardonically amused at our ill-luck. Kara was indifferent, 
so long as Nikka refused to embark upon a scheme of 
wholesale murder in order to impound the treasure for 
themselves alone. Watty was tiredly hopeless. Only 
Hugh squared his jaw and said nothing. 

44 I’ll have the precious pair fetched in if you like,” 
volunteered Nikka as we sat about the room. “But I 
don’t see the use. I’ve talked to them, and I can assure 
you they aren’t in a mood to be agreeable. Mrs. Hilyer 
is consumed with revenge. She isn’t thinking of any¬ 
thing else. She just wants to get back at us. Mahkouf is 
politely threatening. He figures that he has us on the 
hip because of the killings last night,—murder of His 
Imperial Majesty’s subjects and all that. He talked about 
international complications, and lawlessness.” 

“Could we, perhaps, detain them sufficiently long to 
permit us to get away?” inquired my uncle. 

“With the treasure? Hardly! I say, do you realize 
the sheer physical job in removing that stuff? Why, there 
must be tons of it! It would have to be boxed and crated. 
And where would you take it to? How would you take 

it anywhere ? To arrange for its removal would require— 

282 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY 


283 


oh, I d liate to say how long! In the meantime, we might 
hold Mrs. Hilyer without causing any comment, but Mah- 
kouf is a well-known person. He isn’t called ‘The Grand 
Vizier’s Jackal’ for nothing.” 

Wasso Mikali appeared in the doorway at the foot of 
the stairs that led up to the large chamber on the court¬ 
yard level. Ilis face was grim and the tone in which he 
addressed Nikka so savage as to attract the attention of 
all of us. Kara eyed him with approval, and ventured a 
confirmatory nod. 

“He says,” Nikka translated, “that the only thing for 
us to do is to kill Tokalji and the rest of the prisoners, 
stow their bodies in the drain that I have told him about, 
and then deny to Malikouf that there ever was a fight or 
that there is any treasure here. He insists it was a great 
mistake for us to take any prisoners, but that we can yet 
remedy it in time.” 

“He’s dead wrong,” said Hugh abruptly. “I think I 
can use Tokalji to work out of this mess.” 

“How?” asked Nikka. 

“By making it worth his while. He’d do anything for 
money, wouldn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, we have the money in limitless quantities. I 
want to say a word to you lads and Professor King that 
has been on my chest ever since I saw that treasure-vault. 
I never thought of this before, because I didn’t take the 
story any too seriously, as I’ve already said. But now 
it’s beyond cavil. My point is this: there’s too much 
wealth down there for any one man. Professor King says 
there may be $125,000,000. Nobody needs that much just 
to lead his own life in affluence. 

“I’m going to divide it equally between you, Nikka, 
Jack, Professor King, Watty and myself, subject to what¬ 
ever disbursements Nikka thinks Wasso Mikali should 
have and a price necessary to attach Tokalji’s allegiance 
to us.” 


2 84 , THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“Your idea of purchasing Tokalji’s aid, supposing he 
can aid us, is a good one,” said my uncle. “But I have 
more money now than I can use. I must absolutely refuse 
your offer so far as it concerns myself, Hugh. ’ ’ 

“Me, too, your ludship,” spoke up Watkins. “What 
would I do with millions of pounds? All the other serv¬ 
ants would be jealous of me, and the newspaper gentle¬ 
men would be ’aving their fun with me every day most 
like. No, no, sir. I’m an old man, and with all due 
respect, I’m sure I’d much rather stay on with you at 
Chesby, your ludship, and valet you properly. It ain’t 
so easy to find a good valet nowadays, sir. Really, sir, 
I’d rather not.” 

“Well,” said Hugh, “we won’t fight about that, Watty. 
If you stay with me you—Why, hang it all, you’re one 
of the best friends I’ve got! You must stay. But I’m 
going to insist on splitting with Jack and Nikka. Then 
Jack can build houses to suit himself, and Nikka can play 
his fiddle to poor boys and girls.” 

“I knew you’d make an offer like that, Hugh,” said 
Nikka simply. “It’s like you. And don’t you worry 
about Wasso Mikali. I’ll take care of him and his tribe 
with my share. It wouldn’t do them any good to make 
them grossly rich. They’d leave their old ways of life, 
contract tuberculosis or dissipate themselves to death. Let 
them be. They live an idyllic life, a life good enough 
for me, anyway. 

“But I’m not going to protest against the corruption of 
Tokalji t if you believe you can make anything out of it. 
What is your idea?” 

“Have him in,” answered Hugh. “I’ll show you.” 

Wasso Mikali brought in the brigand chief, his broken 
arm in a sling, a sour glint of hatred in his eye. 

“Now,” said Hugh, “ask him, Nikka, if he’d like to be 
so rich he wouldn’t need to steal again, except to indulge 
his sportin’ tastes?” 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY 


285 


Tokalji evidently considered he was being spoofed, and 
he drew himself haughtily erect. 

“He says any man would answer that one way,” replied 
Nikka. “But that you seek to annoy him.” 

“Tell him,” returned Hugh, “that I’ll give him £100,- 
000 Turkish if he’ll come over to our side, and back us 
up against Malikouf Pasha. Explain to him about Mah- 
kouf Pasha.” 

The change in Tokalji’s manner was ridiculous. 

“He says,” translated Nikka, “that he will kill the 
Sultan for you for £100,000 Turkish. But he wants to 
see the money.” 

“Watty,” said Hugh, “go down into the sewer-treasury 
and collect a sack of jewels—anything will do. Tell To¬ 
kalji I’m sending for an earnest of our good-faith, Nikka.” 

Avarice glowed in the brigand’s face. Wasso Mikali 
looked disgusted. He nursed some secret grudge of his 
own against Tokalji, and had wanted to cut his throat 
from the minute he discovered the scoundrel was our 
prisoner. But Hugh’s hunch was a good one. None could 
doubt that as Tokalji gradually thawed under the influ¬ 
ence of his stimulated acquisitive instincts. 

And when Watty tramped in fifteen minutes afterward 
and plumped a bulging sack into the old thief’s lap a 
miracle was wrought. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his 
hands clawed the lovely stones; his eyes shone; he cackled 
to himself and crooned like a mother over her baby. 

“Tell him they are his, and that we will add gold to 
them, if he plays fair with us,” continued Hugh when he 
judged he had made his effect. “But he will have to re¬ 
main our prisoner until we leave.” 

“He awaits your orders,” Nikka translated the reply, 
as Tokalji regretfully tore his attention from the treasure 
on his knees. “Wait a minute.” This last as Tokalji 
burst into a tumult of excited speech. “He says for you 
not to worry about Mahkouf Pasha. He knows all about 


286 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


the Pasha. He, the Pasha, has been smuggling arms from 
Roumania to Kemal Pasha at Angora, and Tokalji has 
played a part in the business.” 

Hugh just grinned, and the rest of us grinned back at 
him. 

“We are indeed fortunate,” remarked King. 

“Fortunate your eye!” returned Hugh with jubilant 
disrespect. “I knew such precious scoundrels would sell 
each other out. Now, Nikka, you tell Tokalji he is to in¬ 
form Mahkouf Pasha that he regards us as his friends, 
inasmuch as we relieved him last night from the oppression 
of a band of thieves. And we’ll have Mahkouf in here, 
and give him an earful. I suppose we’ll have to drag in 
that poor Hilyer woman, too. I hate that. But she’ll 
have to be made to understand her position.” 

The interview that followed was absurd and sordid. 
Mahkouf Pasha, after an attempt at hectoring defiance, 
collapsed completely and begged to be let alone. Nikka, 
who handled him, squelched him to putty, and told Wasso 
Mikali to see him to the street. 

“And remember,” Nikka concluded, “if you dare to 
breathe a word against us, you Levantine dog, we will 
show you up for what you are to the Allied High Commis¬ 
sioners, to your master the Grand Vizier and to the Na¬ 
tionalists at Angora. You have played all three of these, 
one against the others, and all three will be glad to hang 
you. Go, before I kick you!” 

Wasso Mikali positively chuckled as he jerked the ashen¬ 
faced mongrel to his feet and steered him up the stairs. 

Maude Hilyer was not so easy. She began by a wailing 
tirade that degenerated into a filthy harangue. I learned 
afterwards that she had risen in life from a position 
which had made her engagement for the Gayety Theater 
chorus an epochal event for her. We sent Betty from the 
room, and Hugh gently quieted her. 

“See here, Mrs. Hilyer,” he said. “We don’t enjoy this 
any more than you do. For what happened to your hus- 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY 


287 


band—Perhaps anything I say will be in bad taste. But 
the fact remains that we had nothing against him. It 
was he who went after ns. And I notice that although 
that demon Lafitte tortured and attempted to abuse several 
of us, including a woman, you never raised your hand to 
restrain him. 

N 4 ‘But I’m not appealing to you on grounds of decency, 
but of self-interest. If nothing comes out about Ililyer’s 
end, you can go home and hold up your head. On the 
other hand, if you want to air what happened, I shall 
see to it that the whole story of my uncle’s death becomes 
known. Do you think that then you will be received any¬ 
where at home? I leave it to you.” 

The queer social vanity that was the main-spring of the 
woman’s life responded to this argument. She dried her 
tears and restrained her tongue; and for a moment I felt 
sorry for her. But she showed her character at the last, 
even as she rose to go. 

“It’s all very well what you say, Lord Chesby,” she 
whimpered. “But what am I going to do now? Hilyer’s 
dead, Little Depping is loaded with mortgages. His cousin 
George will inherit what’s left of it, anyway. And I—” 

She hesitated artistically. 

“I am not going to pay you blackmail,’’ returned Hugh 
coldly, “but you may call on my solicitors this day two 
months. What we do for you will depend upon your con¬ 
duct. ’ ’ 

And that was the last any of us saw of Maude Hilyer. 
But I may as well say here that she did call on Mr. Bel- 
lowes in London, and that by Hugh’s direction he ar¬ 
ranged to pay her a small income conditioned on good be¬ 
havior. Hugh, with his usual generosity, insisted, too, 
upon making substantial presents—booby-prizes, he called 
them—to our two Russian prisoners. They were not re¬ 
leased, however, until we left Constantinople, as their 
vindictive attitude assured us of their desire to wreck our 
fortunes, if they could discover an opportunity. What 


288 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


happened to the strange pair after Wasso Mikali freed 
them I do not know. But I should hazard a guess that 
while Mrs. Ililyer will be content to live respectably in 
a cheap Brighton hotel, eking out her means with the 
practice of bridge of an uncommonly sharp variety, Serge 
Vassilievich and Sandra Vassilievna—whether brother and 
sister, in truth, I never found out—will fleece their way 
through the smart watering-places and resorts of the Con¬ 
tinent so long as the police permit them at large. 

“Are we downhearted?” demanded Hugh, as the door 
closed behind Mrs. Ililyer. 

“We are not,” returned King. “It is amazing to re¬ 
flect upon the apparent hopelessness of our position a 
couple of hours ago, while now we seem to have no reason 
to anticipate any insurmountable difficulties.” 

“Don’t be too sure about that,” I remonstrated. “We 
still have to consider the proposition of smuggling tons of 
treasure out of a country that would be delighted to get its 
hands on it.” 

“We’ll find a way,” Nikka declared. “I feel more hope¬ 
ful than I did. Hugh has given us a lesson in practical 
strategy. It was a master-stroke to buy in Tokalji. Now 
we have some time to spare.” 

“And with submission, sir, Mister Nikka,” said Watkins, 
gently closing the door behind him. “Miss Betty is dead 
asleep on some rugs upstairs. ’Ave you gentlemen forgot 
it’s past eight o’clock? Come, now, a bite of supper, and 
you’d best sleep a while.” 

“He’s right,” assented Hugh. “We’re overdoing it. 
A night’s sleep will set us all up.” 

We slept royally, leaving the guard duty to Wasso 
Mikali’s men; and the next day we awoke with confidence 
in our united ability to overcome all remaining obstacles. 
At Nikka’s suggestion we called upon Wasso Mikali for his 
advice. He pondered for five minutes or so, then spoke 
like a judge on the bench. 

“A great treasure like this cannot be trusted in many 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY 


289 


men’s hands,” he said. “Otherwise I would offer to trans¬ 
port it by mule-trains to the dwelling-place of my tribe. 
Jakka knows how secure that is. But even if we succeeded 
in carrying it there, what should we do with it ? To make 
use of it, you must carry it to the lands where you 
live. 

1 ‘ So, friends of my sister’s son, I say that you must put 
the treasure on a boat, and you must go on that boat, your¬ 
selves, and you must be sure you can trust the captain.” 

“But how can we find such a boat and captain?” asked 
Hugh. 

“Leave that to me,” answered Wasso Mikali promptly. 
‘ ‘ I know certain men of my race in this city who can fur¬ 
nish me with information about the vessels that come to the 
Golden Horn. And in the meantime, you must make 
boxes to hold the treasure.” 

We heard no more from him for a week. He went and 
came, sometimes by day and sometimes by night; and we 
in the house in Sokaki Masyeri, prisoners as well as cap- 
tors, labored with saw and hatchet, hammer and nails. 
As fast as we shaped the boxes, we carried them down to 
the drain and packed them, wrapping gold and gems in 
whatever fabrics we could find around the house, and in 
this way we used up all the loose lumber, cloth and bed¬ 
ding in Tokalji’s store rooms. 

Then, one night as we sat in the atrium, very sore as 
to hands and fingers from the unaccustomed carpentry, 
there was a knock on the courtyard door, and Wasso Mikali 
ushered in a tall, lean man in a blue sea-officer’s cap. He 
left this man in the courtyard, and came down to us. 

“I have brought you a sea-captain who does not fear 
to dodge the law,” said the old Gypsy without preface. 
“He loves a Circassian girl who lives in a street near 
the Khan of the Georgians, and I have made it plain to 
him that if we do business with him the girl stays in my 
custody for surety of his honesty. He is a Russian, and 
his ship is his own—or so he says.” 


290 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


“You did not tell him what we wanted him for?” ques¬ 
tioned Hugh. 

“Tell him only what you must,” counseled Wasso Mi- 
kali. “I think I have a hold on this man, but I would not 
trust him more than I could help.” 

“Why can’t we tell him that we have made a remark¬ 
able find of ancient statuary, mosaics and that sort of 
thing?” I suggested. “He will look us up, and the story 
will sound credible for King. We’ll let him know that 
the Government wouldn’t like to see such a valuable collec¬ 
tion go to foreigners, and so we have to smuggle it.” 

“That will do,” Nikka approved. “And that will ex¬ 
plain why we must send the boxes aboard secretly.” 

We made the deal with the Russian captain that night. 
He was not a bad chap, but a bit put to it to earn the 
keep of himself, his crew and his vessel by reason of the 
anomalous situation in which they found themselves, the 
Slava still running under the old Imperial registry. She 
was a tidy tramp of 5,000 tons odd, and Captain Malako- 
vich made no objection to turning over the necessary cabins 
for our use. He expressed himself feelingly as glad to 
help any one who was trying to diddle the Turkish gov¬ 
ernment, and he served us with a loyalty that earned him 
a considerable additional honorarium upon our arrival in 
Southampton. 

“I’ll enter your stuff on my manifests after we clear the 
port,” he said frankly. “I don’t care whether I ever 
come back here. As to Aleikouan—” the Circassian— 
“Wasso Mikali can send her to Salonika when he receives 
word that I have landed you gentlemen. I’ll trade with 
the Greeks after this. I’m through with the Turks.” 

The transfer of the treasure occupied a week, for we 
could only work at night, carrying the heavy boxes down 
the drain and utilizing the limited stowage-room of the 
Curlew. We set Watkins aboard the Slava to watch the 
boxes, and the rest of us either mounted guard on our 
prisoners or else made more boxes and packed. It was a 


ANTIQUES, STATUARY 


291 


hectic time. The only real excitement that marked it, 
however, was a visit we received from two of Tokalji’s 
men from the camp of the tribe in the Forest of Belgrade. 
Kara took care of them, sending them back with imaginary 
instructions from her father. 

The last day, after the treasure boxes, now duly sten¬ 
ciled “Antiques, Statuary, Chgs. Pd., With Care,” were 
stowed away in a secret compartment of the Slava’s hold, 
we all found time to go to the British Embassy to see 
Hugh and Betty married. Kara, strangely subdued in a 
costume furnished by Betty, hung to Nikka’s arm and 
watched the ceremony with amazement. 

“Do the Franks have to do all that to be married?” 
she commented. “I am more than ever glad I am a 
Tzigane.” 

“What are you going to do with her, Nikka?” asked 
Betty. “Send her to school? Or let me look after her? 
I’d love to.” 

Nikka laughed. 

“You wouldn’t very long. No, I’m not going to curb 
my wild hawk so drastically. She shall taste of civiliza¬ 
tion sip by sip, until it savors sweetly on her tongue.” 

“And you?” cried Hugh. “Aren’t you coming with 
us?” 

“No. I must tame her. And in taming her I shall in¬ 
dulge the craving that has grown in me to sample again 
the joys of the open road that I have not known since I 
was a lad. We are going to wander, Kara and I. We 
will go up into the Rhodopes with Wasso Mikali for a 
while, and then we will take the Tzigane’s Trail through 
the Balkans and over the Danube and the Carpathians, 
on, on, wherever we choose.” 

So, when the Slava steamed out of the Golden Horn 
that afternoon, Hugh and Betty, Vernon King, Watkins 
and I waved good-by to our comrade. Nikka and Kara 
stood on the pier-end as long as we could see them; and 
after they had dwindled out of sight we turned our gaze 


292 THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON 


on the matchless shyline of Stamboul, with its lofty domes 
and slender minarets and close-packed buildings tumbling 
down the hillsides to the great cordon of the old Byzantine 
sea-wall. 

And on the very edge of the wall was poised the squat 
bulk of Tokalji’s weird establishment. We could see it 
clearly, the fine lines of the House of the Married, the 
plumy tip of a cedar waving from its mysterious hidden 
courtyard, and the L-shaped mass of the bachelor’s quar¬ 
ters opposite. They bulked smaller at this distance than 
when seen from the bobbing cockpit of the Curlew. Al¬ 
ready it began to seem difficult to believe that within their 
walls we had witnessed so much of tragedy and devotion. 

‘ ‘ See, there is the mouth of the drain! ’ ’ exclaimed Betty, 
beside Hugh. 

“D’you recall, Jack, how surprised we were when Watty 
popped out of it?” chuckled Hugh. 

“Some day I really must return and follow that up,” 
said King thoughtfully. “ Archgeologically speaking, it 
was quite the most important discovery that we made.” 

Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. 

“I’ve been thinking, Mister Jack, sir,” he said. 
“They’ll never believe this story in the Servants’ ’All, 
’Awkins and Mrs. Prouty and Burbadge and the rest. 
They’ll laugh at me or arsk ’is ludship to ’ave the County 
Council commit me for lunacy.” 

“They’d believe you if you accepted your share of the 
treasure,” I told him. 

“Per’aps,” he admitted. “But what good would it do 
me, sir ? I’ve no call for it, what with me valeting and all, 
and in the end Lloyd George would get it, ’im and the hin- 
come-tax collector. They will any’ow, sir! By crickey, 
Mister Jack, I ’adn’t thought of that!” 

And for the first and only time in the course of our 
acquaintance Watkins indulged in a broad grin. 

THE END 

r \ 156 V 













a” 




•X V 

o o x 

- ^ * 

‘ L ^ O*' <ir y 

*t.i* V* s **, * 


> y N 'vs^~ * ' 0 C‘ i 

• -v A'® * * '**> 

« 1 K<- c* %■ <?V, \V « 

- _ A\K/A ° ^ o 

z ,. ., 

if / /,1 
o u / / 



x 0 ^. 



.' 0 ° 

’** / *»*■>, 
<* -v A » t- 

4 ‘>Y CY *- 

" ^ <S? 


y V 

4 o O' 


•o i . * Y, 

> 0> ^ % 
.Of ^ ^ 


o c Y << 

* V ■■ :> - ,v ^* . 

•■'/ .,V’‘/“ 

.: y v* = * 

: >o o* ; 



V \ 

i * g I A " . Y Y. # ■) N 0 ' Y i. ' f ,’, ' .V 

Y v v »»••>•* > .o'" .’••» Y Y s'** 

^ /■ _ x'o r <? s» * <<> ' 


^ V. * 

° z ^ ^ « 

-V 5 ^"2Y O 

* ** ^ 


•f *>v **• «? 

: “*•** :«* 

* x° - 

> ^ * 

« ^0 






0 ■- <■- " y ° * >■ * Y „~c/%. 1,j *'*''Y°‘ v«. <■< '»• 

i Y' . • ', °o 0°' YlW •*, % 

Y $ - £M2 >„.. k p, 




Y 

, „ o •> * .o- 1 e o 1 *YTi • s ' ,Y 

9' »’*•* 'Y. Y s'V/* Y 




' V r 

\\ .0^0’ ^ 

* » <• Q o 


c ^ 



\K 


* x V <s* ” 

* Y ,;> ^ -/ YY"-!* A "Y, °, ■» 

Y "/T, s' ^ ( , , <■ 'o.k+ ,.\ Y, *, 

°° ~/B ^ [ ^ ** a * ° 

3, »Hi 4 ,\V y3c» * ., . o • \0 J Y? ^ ' ■OY' 

Y- vY'lY/* Y ^ »'*„, Y " 

*".. A % /' f^k \%/ f 

~ . Y a ° Y ^ Y A* Y - 'YispY ' ,% Y © 

* aV <? V -A V '®sS i ' « „V Y- 4 

a 0 <* y o « ,v ^ ^ /y / s s % 'C> * ■» 

Y c o~«* -Y “* o ? s* 1 "* Y 

^ * _S>t\rs ^ O £, y>7^ 1 ^ 

■'■ 4&r<'//?-> i> T>> 



■> >?• Y 

° ^ .^ N 


vV 




X O0^ 


<* < __^ ^ 

^ aV / 

Y 

-V ry * 

-v * . 

\' S 9 0 / -^-S 

V v S l^fw * ^ 
















' ' ' T * 0 
^ ♦oho’ *Cp 

* 


* *0 s** , 

0 A O V S ' fy S 

<?* x \> * -^v^.% o ^ <A 

« ° ^lr> *y « y^fllli^. " ^ o 

* 2 


__ < ^ ^ r> «•- ** * 
pi A . 

y 0 » X * A O ' i I 

a\ t on ^ 0 * ' 0^" *• v ' * ♦ 

* * ^ ^ o 0° * 0 t/rtfr 3 *+ 

+u 





V V 

\V </> 


A^’ 'V 


- X x ~m>. 


>5 




c y 0 * ** A 

A' o ^ ^ * 

* ^ ,«*> . * 



^ c__^ ■ ' < v \ * ^ «K^\i < n_j> v _ O' C. 

%. *■ *7o.■' .**■ % '* „T»>**°° °o, *■» 

' *°^ ^ v y s‘ # ^/,> N o^* *> *o, ^ 

™?A ° % ■* ^ ^ * «■ 

^ z 


\V 

r> 


c A 

•< 


t, S s A 


,.0 V 




0 0 


v* ^ .1- . 

>'«, A*'““■‘A 

0" ^-^/rT^, j-i . . c 

f, S 

* aafw** t 

• «S>: 

V'»7tT’*V . %.**■ 


,= A a 

- -^srar »' / % 

O *y s S .0 

y * * S *S \ I H 



r O’ x 







; *fe o^ r 

^ ^ * i 

^ o.^ '''K ' y 

"••'* V> X s-^,> 

^ ^ ^ ^ *- ^ <5» 



* v \V <P 
30 < \' 


X?$ 

tV <P 


c, 

_ ^ ,V - ^ ^ , 

//j * * ^ S ^ v I g V, Y ° ^ x ^ A A . 0 N 
°- - n ' •” *, .-8> 
v v *^////>t2 -a *>r A JlX ^ A^V' 

<>» v *» ^kT [//Vv^AA- *fV 

\ 0< ^. 

6- 


o <- 

A> *«, 

* % / :Mh\ % < 



* \S '<A ^ 'V^^sXT * ‘V •>>, ° wj^vg. 

C* * *' Vy‘^%V • * 1 /'V ••:; '<K‘ * *''/>' 1 * 

^ a . <& : ^ '. -"o o x 

O X°°X. \^^S' 

°'' '°- ' * - ■ ’ * ' A . • » ■ A/* » H 




A/‘ » N » ’ 

> <TN> 


* ^ A, 



o> ^ 



V v\ 


0 V- ^ .0, ^ • ' 

^ O ( u// 





































































































































































































































